I didn't get any work done last night, dammit. I refused to take meds all day long, searching for mental clarity, and then my husband convinced me I was being stupid. It didn't take much effort. Seriously, if I were one of my patients, I'd have thrown me out of bed or something, sheesh. This morning (by which i mean 15 mins ago) when it took me ten minutes to figure out the least painful way to effing *sit* * up* I was suddenly filled with compassion for all the times I'd ever gnashed my teeth watching patients do the same. We -- the universal nursing we, or maybe the cassie-in-particular 3rd person we -- always thought that band-aide ripping this shit was the way to go, but no. Sometimes one has to compute all the possible angles with which one might attempt to get out of ones bed with the least amount of pain.
I feel a little better. I watched the soap drop in the shower (after i was done using it, thank goodness) with a sense of "Au revoir, my little soap, never be seen again," because anything under mid-thigh height right now might as well be taunting me from China for all of my ability to relate with it. Luckily my cat can jump up on beds, laps, shelves. I can sit, and I can stand, and I can sort of lay down, but getting from one state to the other is, like all transition states, a fucking pain.
And so your dutiful author is still lame, still wishing the narcotics would affect only her low-to-mid back and not her brain because I am not known for the third person or casual use of French, and wishing for a time when one is whole, or at least able to drive soberly and safely to a Starbucks.