Perpetual Smile

Sometimes I feel like the world’s biggest liar. Okay, not a liar. But I do feel like people may think I’m lying. Do I sound paranoid? Stay with me. I’ll explain.

I go to the chiropractor every Wednesday. Today was my fourth visit, and Dr. Rosa — my regular doctor — is on vacation. The chiropractic assistant (massage therapist?) always asks me how I’m feeling and to rate it on a scale of 1 to 10. Sounds pretty basic, right?

It’s not. When she asked me today, I said, “Well, my back is all better, as long as I’m very careful about how I sit and stuff.”

“Good,” she said, making a note. “And your neck?”

“My neck is — well, it’s stiff — but it’s more my arms.”

“And how would you rate the pain?”

“Well, it’s so on and off it’s hard to tell. I guess… a six?”

It is so hard to explain to someone something that isn’t always there, or plays musical chairs. Like, when my back hurt I could say, “it was an eight all day today, but now it’s about a five,” or “it’s been a four today.” With my arms, one spot could be a three, another could be a nine, yet another could be a six and another could be a 999939572359i27t59275. The next day I could have a pain number of two in my wrist for a few minutes, ten in my upper arm thirty minutes later, then sharper pain in my wrist. The scale system really doesn’t work, unless I were to walk around with a notepad noting each spot and the scale number. That would get awfully tedious. I mean, I have a hard enough time doing things as it is because of this. If I were to stop each and every time just to write it down, I’d never get anything done!

Besides, what would I do at the end of the day? Find the mean, median and mode of all of the numbers? Would those calculations be, like, the final scale number I give to the people at my chiropractor’s office? In that case, I’d better pick up a notepad and a calculator.

PS: I’ve edited all of my pre-diagnosis posts and put them in the Thoracic Outlet Syndrome category, if anyone is interested in reading them from the beginning. There are probably — no, definitely — more that I haven’t gotten to. I’ll get there. Eventually. chronic pain posts and put them in the Weird Arm Problem category. That’s all I’ve got right now. Thoracic Outlet Syndrome sounded way, way cooler. Sigh.

One of my mom’s coworkers at the hospital, Dawn, has TOS. She told Mom that she’d received chiropractic treatment for it and that it did help. She also told Mom that she feels like the symptoms are coming back, and that it doesn’t ever just go away. It’s all about managing the pain. She said she tries to be as ergonomic as possible, and always has to be aware of her body’s position.

Dawn also suggested yoga. Mom said she (Dawn) does a lot of it and that it has really helped her.

I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I mean, I never exactly expected any kind of way to fix it or make it go away, but hearing from someone else that it doesn’t is an entirely different thing. I worry about it a lot. I mean, someday I want to try to have a baby and if it all works out — I’m so afraid it won’t — I’m terrified that I won’t be able to carry the diaper bag and car seat. I guess I shouldn’t be worrying about these things now, but it’s bad enough that I can hardly type or carry things at times. I wake up constantly in the middle of the night because I’m in pain. When my godson Konner was born I could barely hold him. It’s just these things that bug me, because I want to have kids more than anything and it terrifies me that I might not be able to be a “normal” mom.

My aunt has rheumatoid arthritis and Crohn’s disease. I guess if she can be a “normal” mom, then so can I. I guess I just need to concentrate on getting as better as I can right now.

I am going to try the yoga, though. Ever since I met Alex (who loves yoga) in my Communications class, I’ve been wanting to try it. It couldn’t hurt, right? I was on the phone with Mike the other night and I told him about Dawn.

“I’m thinking about trying the yoga,” I said.

“Yoga makes you fart.”

I asked him how he knew that, and he told me his sister had taken a class. “You lay on your back and raise your butt off the ground so you can put your legs up, and it’s supposed to let out all the bad gases and stuff.” Apparently everyone in the yoga class was farting.

I couldn’t help but laugh; I’m the type of girl who will laugh her ass off when her boyfriend (or dad) farts.

“That’s why,” he said, “there’s a gay dude walking around spraying Febreeze.”

I love my boyfriend.