Back to the Future

Yesterday, I went to see a doctor.  He was very nice, but I'm still blogging about it. Because of what he said. 

I went to see the doctor because the day before I hurt my back by sitting at my desk and blinking, apparently. Or maybe thinking. I don't know. Whatever it was, one moment I was fine and the next moment I was in excruciating pain. Fortunately, John was nearby to provide words of comfort. I believe his exact words were "God rewards the good and punishes the bad". Really, who needs a heating pad when he's around?

I felt fine whenever I was totally still, but if I had to do something extraneous, like, say, breathe, I was in agony.  Adding to the agony was the total lack of ecstasy, since my husband left that day for a five day business trip, so I couldn't even milk this ailment by sitting in bed surrounded by fluffy pillows, the remote control, my favorite magazines and a bell, to be used whenever I needed a grape peeled or or a page turned.  Seriously, what is the point of not feeling well if your partner is not around? I don't know why people even bother, it's totally not worth it.

Fortunately, I have many family members who are in the medical field, which generally works out well for me because I am in the hypochondria field.  Within an hour, I had the following advice, from my nearest and dearest:

Mama: "You need to go to the gym."

Papa: "You need to wash the kitchen floor, the motion will be good for your back."

Some random guy: "Complete bed rest."

Husbandrinka: "You will need to change your lifestyle and exercise more."

John: "Dance with me. It'll be like Dancing with the Tsars." 

So given this mixed advice, I decided to seek professional help.  The doctor was nice and asked me if I was worried about the economy and the state of our country.  Always a good sign when they try to make small talk by terrorizing the shit out of you, so that you're begging for a quick death.  He xrayed me and said that everything looked fine and when I pointed to the alarming jagged lines that I saw on the film, reassured me that it was my pants' zipper.  Apparently that's a very common condition and not as dangerous as it looks.

He told me that I needed pain medication. I was 100% on board.  

"Have you taken any painkillers that were effective before?" he asked.

"Yes, morphine," I told him.  What?  What did you take after your C-section, Tums?

Well, he prescribed percocet.  And he told me that I should rest.

"Complete rest?" my tail started wagging.

"You can still cook and do the laundry," he said.  "I wouldn't carry heavy grocery bags."

Seriously, what the fuck?

Did I make the appointment in the mid-50s?  Last weekend, a guard at the museum made a passing reference implying that I cleaned a lot.

Is there something about me that screams domesticity? Because if there is, I'd like to have that something's vocal cords cut.  And not share the percocet.