It’s fashionable these days to style oneself as a victim—trump does it all the time, and so do his thug followers who are now crying about the process they wrote in the House rules. So I’ve decided today to call myself a victim, though I can’t quite identify the evil villain.
Surely, it’s not the nurse who gave me two shots yesterday—flu and pneumonia. She’s someone I’ve known and respected for years, and her injections are always smooth. She said one in each arm, so I asked which one would get less sore. She said pneumonia, so that one went in the right arm. Wrong call.
About midafternoon both arms ached at the injection site, but by early evening those aches had faded, only to be replaced by severe pain in my right shoulder. I probably would have decided in a panic that my arm was about to fall off if it weren’t for the friends who had come by for a glass of wine. He said he’d had the same thing—and it was all in the shoulder, not at the injection site. Thanks to Phil for suggesting heat.
I’ve treated myself with short periods on the hot pad (my physician brother advises against extended heat) and Tylenol and wished I could take aspirin. I think I felt two tiny, tiny twinges at the injection site of the flu vaccine and nothing in the other arm. But my shoulder is still unbelievably sore and sensitive. Makes is really hard to function, so I just kept going back to bed. Perfect day for it, with the cold wet weather that makes you want to burrow in the covers. At least I don’t have to remind Jordan to water the new grass seed—that irritates her, and it’s getting watered by the heavens today.
One minute I tell myself I’m being a wimp and to straighten up. Then I remember that I was pretty stoic about severe hip pain before the doctors decided what to do about it, so my pain tolerance must be okay. Not my imagination--the shoulder really does hurt. I also tell myself I am not one to have those vague “I don’t feel well” days—going back to bed throughout the day is unusual for me, so my body must need the rest. Isn’t it funny that we feel guilty about not feeling well?
Sophie, probably affected by the weather and maybe sensing I’m not myself (dogs are pretty good about that), has slept all day, after one brief trip outside early in the morning. I just invited her to go again by opening the door, but she stood immobile and stared at me.
I am reminded of my sweet mom, who throughout my childhood had migraines—infrequent but severe. And she took to her bed for the day. When anyone asked about her, I would cheerfully tell them, “She’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. So that’s where I am—I’ll be all right tomorrow and get back to the work I meant to do today.