When I was in my latest car accident, in which a car blew past a stop sign in front of my friend Bethany's car in an attempt to prematurely end all our lives, I got whiplash.
Whiplash sucks.
As a matter of fact, it still sucks. My neck makes new noises I don't like or trust. But time passes, injuries heal, and this week I thought, "Laura, you are becoming a pudding. A human Christmas pudding."
(These are the sort of uplifting bits of information my brain likes to give me, in order to brighten my day and improve my self-esteem.)
So I thought about it and realized I wasn't waking up in unspeakable pain anymore, AND I could both turn my head and look up all at the same time. I decided that meant I could try fitness again.
I am trying to say nice things about this fitness. All I can really say that is: My neck doesn't hurt.
The rest of me hurts.
I can't sit or stand without pain, and I am walking as if someone decided to beat me with a tire iron before I came to work. Tire irons hurt. Fitness hurts.
There is not enough sweet tea in the world to make me feel better.
I have to do this again tomorrow. Also the next day. Also the next day.
Stupid healthy lifestyle, ruining my life.
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car accident. Show all posts
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
Velma
Well, Sunday I woke up at 5:00 AM, screaming into my pillow because I'd tried to roll over in my sleep only to discover immeasurable pain.
Just another Sunday, right?
Um, NO.
So I took ibuprofen (the medicine that God and Andrew Dunlop gave us so that we could function as adults in an ever-changing world), and I went back to sleep.
Except that later, when I woke up again, the ibuprofen had only made my neck angrier, and I could not get up. Also I could not roll over. Also I could not reach anything, including the remote for my television, my book, my knitting, and my laptop. Since not having any form of entertainment made being stuck in bed boring as well as excruciating, I grabbed my cell phone (fortunately, I had forgotten to plug it in to charge the night before, so it was within reach), and I called home.
Did I mention I was home?
Yeah.
I heard the phone ring on the other side of the house, and I prayed silently that this was not one of those days when my mother decided picking up the phone was a bad idea (she does this). But it wasn't, and she answered.
"Mum?" I said.
"Yes? Laura?"
"Yes," I replied. "I am trapped here."
If this had been a Stephen King novel, that would have been a very creepy sentence. Also it would have been nighttime, the East coast, and probably Maine.
"What?" Mum asked.
"I cannot get out of my bed."
This is one of those shameful things you say as an adult, all the while remembering those advertisements with the old lady on the ground crying out, "Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!" The lady we made fun of on the playground in elementary school. I am that person now, but younger and with better clothes.
Mom helped me up, but I regretted it instantly.
An hour later, I was in the ER, waiting.
The ER is boring. Also it takes up to three hours for them to call your name, even if it LOOKS empty inside the waiting room. This is because everyone has better things to do than go to the ER on a Sunday, including medical staff.
To my shock, Dad had responded to Mom's notification that I was heading to the ER by also going to the ER. And so there were three of us and I felt like a four year old with two worried parents, which was slightly awkward until Dad found Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark on the ER television set, and then it was like home but with uncomfortable chairs.
It is whiplash. Which means I have this sexy collar to wear.
It is offensive, but it is an orthopedic device, so what can you expect? It's better than the way I was holding my head before (balanced on my right shoulder), even if I do have to eat like a dinosaur now (meaning I reach my whole head and neck toward my food like a stegosaurus, causing The Brother to hum the Jurassic Park theme at me as I ate my dinner last night. Since I am me, I made dinosaur calls as I ate instead of getting angry and throwing things at him.
But because I am a knitter, I instantly found a better way to wear the neck collar.
There is a reason why I knit all these little scarves.
I was feeling pretty good about the whole scarf/collar combo until my friend Melanie brought up that I kind of look like Velma. Which meant nothing to me until I Googled Velma, and lo and behold, I am one orange turtleneck away from solving crime with a cowardly dog and a VW van.
I don't know whether to be ashamed of this or proud. Without intending to, I have clearly reached cartoon immortality. I know what my Halloween costume will be now, if I ever have need of one. I mean, some people live their whole lives without ever knowing who their cosplay double is, but now I know, all it would take is a costume change and I would be Velma from Scooby-Doo, only not in a gross way. (Don't ever Google pictures of Velma and you'll never know why the gross. No really, don't Google Velma pictures. Don't.)
They also gave me muscle relaxers and prescription ibuprofen and a SHOT. The shot made me feel cozy, which was necessary, because without it I would have torn that neck collar of in a minute flat, like I want to do now. Apparently, the shot made my hyper-sensitive fear of strangulation (the reason why I don't already own a Velma-style turtleneck) fade enough that I could be comfortable in the brace thing. But the shot has worn off now, and it is only fear of agony that is keeping the brace on.
I should be okay soon, or so they tell me. But two weeks ago, they told me I was "clinically insignificant." So we'll see.
Just another Sunday, right?
Um, NO.
So I took ibuprofen (the medicine that God and Andrew Dunlop gave us so that we could function as adults in an ever-changing world), and I went back to sleep.
Except that later, when I woke up again, the ibuprofen had only made my neck angrier, and I could not get up. Also I could not roll over. Also I could not reach anything, including the remote for my television, my book, my knitting, and my laptop. Since not having any form of entertainment made being stuck in bed boring as well as excruciating, I grabbed my cell phone (fortunately, I had forgotten to plug it in to charge the night before, so it was within reach), and I called home.
Did I mention I was home?
Yeah.
I heard the phone ring on the other side of the house, and I prayed silently that this was not one of those days when my mother decided picking up the phone was a bad idea (she does this). But it wasn't, and she answered.
"Mum?" I said.
"Yes? Laura?"
"Yes," I replied. "I am trapped here."
If this had been a Stephen King novel, that would have been a very creepy sentence. Also it would have been nighttime, the East coast, and probably Maine.
"What?" Mum asked.
"I cannot get out of my bed."
This is one of those shameful things you say as an adult, all the while remembering those advertisements with the old lady on the ground crying out, "Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!" The lady we made fun of on the playground in elementary school. I am that person now, but younger and with better clothes.
Mom helped me up, but I regretted it instantly.
An hour later, I was in the ER, waiting.
The ER is boring. Also it takes up to three hours for them to call your name, even if it LOOKS empty inside the waiting room. This is because everyone has better things to do than go to the ER on a Sunday, including medical staff.
To my shock, Dad had responded to Mom's notification that I was heading to the ER by also going to the ER. And so there were three of us and I felt like a four year old with two worried parents, which was slightly awkward until Dad found Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark on the ER television set, and then it was like home but with uncomfortable chairs.
It is whiplash. Which means I have this sexy collar to wear.
It is offensive, but it is an orthopedic device, so what can you expect? It's better than the way I was holding my head before (balanced on my right shoulder), even if I do have to eat like a dinosaur now (meaning I reach my whole head and neck toward my food like a stegosaurus, causing The Brother to hum the Jurassic Park theme at me as I ate my dinner last night. Since I am me, I made dinosaur calls as I ate instead of getting angry and throwing things at him.
But because I am a knitter, I instantly found a better way to wear the neck collar.
There is a reason why I knit all these little scarves.
I was feeling pretty good about the whole scarf/collar combo until my friend Melanie brought up that I kind of look like Velma. Which meant nothing to me until I Googled Velma, and lo and behold, I am one orange turtleneck away from solving crime with a cowardly dog and a VW van.
 |
Velma from Scooby-Doo. No, I did not
draw this. It is all Hanna-Barbera, folks.
|
They also gave me muscle relaxers and prescription ibuprofen and a SHOT. The shot made me feel cozy, which was necessary, because without it I would have torn that neck collar of in a minute flat, like I want to do now. Apparently, the shot made my hyper-sensitive fear of strangulation (the reason why I don't already own a Velma-style turtleneck) fade enough that I could be comfortable in the brace thing. But the shot has worn off now, and it is only fear of agony that is keeping the brace on.
I should be okay soon, or so they tell me. But two weeks ago, they told me I was "clinically insignificant." So we'll see.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Still More Terrible Things
Because this is the best summer ever, I was in another car accident. ANOTHER.
This time, I wasn't driving, so Francis was spared. But it was super-freaky and much worse than the last accident. My friend Bethany was driving, and she ended up with second degree burns on her hands from the airbag. I ended up with bruised ribs, a messed-up neck (no whiplash, thank goodness), and a brokennotbroken finger that hurts like the dickens. Stupid finger.
We were heading to Fort Wayne for Indian food--which, by the way, I still haven't gotten--and a car pulled straight across the highway were were driving on. The people in front of us moved into the left lane to try and avoid the first car. They collided anyway. And then we hit the first car, because there was nowhere to go.
Bruised ribs suck. Also so does having your neck unable to support your head, and a finger that makes using my dominant hand impossible.
Here is Bethany's car.
And here is the car we hit. The side impact was us...the front impact was from the car in front of us, who didn't manage to miss them when they swerved.
Did I mention ouch? Because ouch. Luckily, everyone walked away. But really. Ouch. OUCH.
If the fates are listening, no more car accidents, okay? And if the Summer of Suck can be over now, all the better.
This time, I wasn't driving, so Francis was spared. But it was super-freaky and much worse than the last accident. My friend Bethany was driving, and she ended up with second degree burns on her hands from the airbag. I ended up with bruised ribs, a messed-up neck (no whiplash, thank goodness), and a brokennotbroken finger that hurts like the dickens. Stupid finger.
We were heading to Fort Wayne for Indian food--which, by the way, I still haven't gotten--and a car pulled straight across the highway were were driving on. The people in front of us moved into the left lane to try and avoid the first car. They collided anyway. And then we hit the first car, because there was nowhere to go.
Bruised ribs suck. Also so does having your neck unable to support your head, and a finger that makes using my dominant hand impossible.
Here is Bethany's car.
And here is the car we hit. The side impact was us...the front impact was from the car in front of us, who didn't manage to miss them when they swerved.
Did I mention ouch? Because ouch. Luckily, everyone walked away. But really. Ouch. OUCH.
If the fates are listening, no more car accidents, okay? And if the Summer of Suck can be over now, all the better.
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