It’s been six months… do you know where your gall bladder is?
These days, I’m nostalgic for the time in my life when I didn’t think the gall bladder was a real organ, just a body part for use in a humorous rant.
Apparently not. It’s a real organ, like the rest of my organs which are getting tangled and squished inside my rib cage as the belly tenant continues to grow.
Ah, yes, the pain… from my mid-back around to just about my rib cage. Someone asked me if I’m taking medication for it. I’ve never been one to medicate pain. It’s always been something I thought was important to experience, to know its source, where it resides and when it’s there and when it’s not.
I guess that goes for physical ailments and emotional traumas, national woes and personal plight.
I’ve been experiencing a crippling muscular pain in my lower back (ahem… very lower back) for a few days now. It just seems to get worse. I sit and stand up, it sharpens. I stand and sit down, it sticks into me.
Yesterday I went to the doctor (how many times have I seen doctors in the last half year?) who said that lying down and sitting are not going to help; constant movement is what I need (and some pain killers). Hmm… I sit at a computer job all day and I’m not a fan of medication even when I’m not pregnant.
All this is reminding me of a childhood/teenagerhood sprinkled with these half-joking words from my mother: “I carried you for nine months!!!” (of course, I’m leaving out the juicy bits).
Last night, as I was lying in bed, not sleeping and trying to find a position that would not result in a knife-like feeling for the lower half of my body, I rested my hands on my belly as a gesture of peace towards this unborn child. No resentment here, kid. This is all for you. Unless one day you get your tongue pierced like your mama did.
And then I felt a pop…
And a poke…
And another one…
So as I couldn’t sleep from the stabbing back pain, and my husband couldn’t sleep from my stabbing restlessness, we lay awake entertaining ourselves with the thought…
…our baby wasn’t sleeping either.
Since my self-mutilation on a roller coaster story formed, I’ve been making a lot of people laugh with it, and who am I to stop people from laughing? I’m reposting the tale for all of eternity:
This has to be my second most loserish thing I’ve ever done.
So last night I met up with two friends at Coney Island. They had never ridden the Cyclone, so we decided to take it out for a spin. Don’t know if you are familiar, but it’s the infamous 80+ year old wooden rickety roller coaster. I haven’t been on a roller coaster in years, let alone the Cyclone, and totally forgot that roller coasters move really fast. After the first fall, my glasses flew off and I freaked and managed to grab them, at the expense of losing my positioning. When I grabbed for them, we were going for the second dip (I think, who knows) and ended up punching myself in the face. My nose, to be exact. I could smell (and possibly taste?) my blood and thought, well I’ll have to deal with that later. Meanwhile, I was stuck in a terrible position for the rest of the ride and couldn’t steady myself. When we finally got off, I realized a few things:
1. There was blood splattered across my shirt.
2. I had somewhere along the way banged my head against the bar and had a bump forming, not to mention my little non-Jewish nose was becoming increasingly Jewish.
3. My neck and back were completely in pain, only to get worse by the hour (making the drive home interesting and making last night painfully sleepless and making packing my bags today painfully… obvious).
4. I am not as young as I feel.
5. An octogenarian had chewed me up and spit me out.
Sigh. The comfort is that I wasn’t an awkward 14-year-old on a first date. It could be a comfort, too, that I can pack a pretty mean punch when suspended in a moving vehicle going downward. And of course, I don’t usually mind making other people laugh at my own expense.