Rough Ruff

Well now, how’s about a bad day?

Last week’s MRI apparently was absent of any suggestion of problems. Dr S doesn’t want to do surgery for fear of making my pain worse. After delivering the news he thought I was looking at him like I hated him, but I was trying to wait until he left the room to cry my buckets of hysterical grief tears. I am terrified of surgery but I have faith in it, probably more than is due. 

He’s referred me back to the so far useless pain clinic for a spinal cord stimulator, which is an implant into my nerves either in my back or somewhere on the way to my foot to shock my nervous system when it tries to deliver pain signals. I described it as a pacemaker for nerves to my friend Horseradish Whisperer, but I just realised it’s a bark collar. This is the singular instance in which I want my independence to be muzzled. 

If I’m approved for this implant it better work. Except, I’m confused how it will work while the nerve blocks didn’t. These guinea pig treatment strategies are way past the borders of offensive. Medical communities truly don’t know much about the human body.