I have the tendonitis again in my arm, mostly from type-type-typing all day long and passing out on various sofas when I’m done type-type-typing. I know it’s probably tendonitis, but in my heart of hearts, I really think that it’s a tumor. Because I always think that something is terribly wrong with me.
The tumor, if it exists, is sitting right in the socket of my arm, pressing on the nerve. It will not be discovered until it’s too late, because no one ever listens to me. By that time, I will have to have my whole arm removed, right up to the ball joint. I will keep an orange in the space where my arm used to sit, and haul it out at parties.
I had a shrink once who told me that she had the perfect engraving for my tombstone: “I told you I was sick.” Instead of laughing or rolling my eyes, I leaned forward in my chair and demanded, “Sick? Why? WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?”
3 thoughts on “The continuous catalogue of complaints: My arm hurts”
I worked for several years doing “statistical analysis” – a term that here means sitting at a desk typing code all day long – and developed a terrible sensation in my arm that was a strange combination of numbness and agonizing pain. After a while, I couldn’t make a fist without extreme discomfort, and typing became rather difficult. When I went back to school this year, I had to take notes on a laptop in a very awkward position, and things got very worse very quickly. I woke up daily thinking this would be the day my arm would finally fall off. After much hesitation (I’m an anti-hypochondriac of sorts) I finally went to see a doctor. I was referred to a physical therapist. She examined me rather cursorily, and pronounced that my problem was that my hamstrings were too tight.
My hamstrings. In my legs.
Because my sister is a physical therapist, I was disinclined out of familial charity to dismiss the diagnosis as blatant quackery, and began stretching my legs.
The therapist’s theory was that I have poor posture and slouch forward, which pinches blood vessels in my shoulder. Tight hamstrings make one slouch. Stretching my legs was one easy step to help with my posture. I’m about 95% better now. The reason I mention all this is because sometimes painful problems can have simple, elegant solutions.
Then again, it might be a tumor.
–M (from Friendster)
Shel Silverstein (sp?) wrote a poem where a little girl was a hypochondriac (once again, sp?) and when she died it said “I told you I was sick” on her tombstone. It’s funny.
Holy crap! I have the same tumor. At least we can die together.