In which there are two birthdays and one pulled muscle

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Yesterday was this blog’s birthday: it’s now one, which means if it was a human it would be tottering around, clutching at table legs as it tried to haul itself up; and perhaps trying out some new words.

Yesterday was also S’ birthday; he is considerably more advanced in years, although sometimes he totters around and clutches at table legs, particularly if he’s been cycling too much.

Yesterday, however, made me doubt my age.  I may be 4 years younger than S, but I felt more like 72 than 27 because I woke up completely unable to move.

Somehow, in the middle of the night, I’d managed to pull the muscle below the shoulder blade – answers on a postcard as to what it’s actually called – which rendered me immobile, any movement impossible without tears of pain.  You don’t realise quite how much you use all the muscles in your back until one of them is taken away.

I lay there like a stranded beetle, unable to turn off my alarm (it necessitated rolling over), unable to have breakfast, unable to do anything except lie there grimacing in pain.

Two ibuprofen, one glass of water with a straw, one phone call to NHS Direct and lots of help from S later, I was finally able, with much whimpering, to stand up and make my geriatric way to work.

On advice of Nurse Helen from NHS Direct, I bought some co-codamol so I could alternate it with ibuprofen.  I’ve never taken co-codamol before, but swiftly discovered that it’s a lot of fun; it gives everything a lovely, fluffy, fuzzy edge, akin to the effect of a large glass of wine on an empty stomach.  It took away the pain, but it also brought on the sleep, so by 8pm I was crashed out on the sofa, dozing my way through Survivors and whatever else S was enjoying for his birthday viewing.  In my defence at being so lame on my boyfriend’s birthday, we had celebrated in style on Saturday with an evening swim at the local heated lido and a delicious dinner, and I had given him some kick-ass gifts too – Something, Something, Something Dark Side plus tickets for a Hot Chip gig – and he wasn’t feeling very well either, so falling asleep so early isn’t quite as bad as it might have been.  Anyway, I’m 72, I’m allowed to.

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2 responses »

  1. Pingback: In which we attend a wedding in the snow « Postcards from the Edge (of the West Country)

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