Fence Jumper

I must have been a real ass in a past life. Karmic-ly, I am certainly paying for something. Band-aids are the only things that don’t freak me out in a Doctor’s office, it helps if they have Barbie on them. Unfortunately, I seem to have drawn the short straw when it comes to a need for clinic visits – I’m in and out of one medical office or another weekly and I just can’t seem to get accustom to the anxiety involved.

I had an MRI today, open and sitting (preferable to the original casket version). No needles or contrast required, I just had to sit there and watch the big screen TV for half an hour. I spent most of it trying not to fall asleep, explaining to the Tech that I had an 8 week old baby with colic, so he wouldn’t think I was a narcolept. By the time I left, I needed to curl up under my quilt, fetal style and submerse myself in Stars Hollow until the world felt right again.  Instead, I grabbed a cup of coffee and went back to work, annoyed by this seemingly unjustified state of emotional exhaustion.

When I’m feeling high minded, I think this constant brush with my mortality has me tweaking. It’s not something I’m conscious of, but somewhere my body is telling my brain that pain = death. Most of the time I think it has more to do with disappointment. Every visit, procedure and new medication brings with it the possibility of a cure. After 6 years, they feel more like the beginning of another failed attempt. Hello wall, here’s my head.

I’ve been reading a brilliant book, The Pain Chronicles by Melanie Thernstrom, and she mentions a study in which dogs are subject to chronic pain over a long period of time. The study found that 9 out of 10 dogs will lie down and just take the pain, while one dog continuously attempts to  jump the fence. I’m a fence jumper.  With the jumping comes the fall. The study fails to mention whether or not the jumping dog comforts his failed attempts with Gilmore Girl reruns, but picturing it kinda turns this crap afternoon around, doesn’t it?


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The Littlest Rabbit

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