(Advance warning - this post is not for the squeamish)
"FUCKFUCKFUCKTAKEITOUTTAKEITOUTTAKEITOUT!" echoed across the empty corridors of the hospital and doubtless leaked into the waiting room where those seated looked up from their magazines and felt the need to be elsewhere.
The howl was coming from me.
Tonight was physio night. This involved more acupuncture, since it had been doing marvellously. Up until just then, that is. The needles had been stuck into my leg as before, and now the lovely Kate was tackling my lower back. For some reason, it wasn't feeling good. It wasn't feeling good at all. "Last one," she said, and I felt the wipe of the surgical spirit and then... well... I can't really describe what happened next. Imagine someone makes a small incision in your back and then dribbles acid onto the bundle of nerves that run down your spine.
Which brings us back to the first line of this entry. "Oh dear," understated the physio, "I'll take it out. We've changed the manufacturer of the needles, and other patients have complained too..."
At least, thats what I think she said. I was focussing on the burning-acid sensation making its way down inside my back, thighs and ending in my calves. I made light conversation through clenched teeth as the rest of the needles were removed. Sadly, I'd gone into such a spasm that my muscles were gripping the pins to such an extent that the only way to remove them involved more needles around the affected site.
I'm home now, and right now I feel as bad as I felt when this kicked off a couple of months ago. I'm told this is temporary. It had better be.
So, by my reckoning, this must be number 3. Evidentally the Fates don't feel that a divorce counts as a physical injury.
