I know it’s been very quiet here the past few days. On Sunday morning my neck underwent a mysterious transformation from being functional and largely unnoticed, to being a spasming, twisted menace. ‘But what did you dooooo?’ people ask. Nothing. Well, nothing remarkable. So irritating – falling off horses, falling off motorbikes, hanging upside down from the trapeze, contorting and hula-ing have all failed to ever seriously incapacitate me. Yesterday, I glanced casually over my right shoulder as I was locking the car. And that was the last time I could look over my right shoulder. In the 36 hours since then I have been mostly horizontal on our couch, keeping my neck very very still and trying to keep the whining to a bare minimum. I have a range of movement that allows me to look left and a little downward, giving me a permanent and most empathetic-looking head tilt. Basically, I am Zoolander without Blue Steel.
I waited for this morning’s chiropractic appointment like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. I had never been to the chiropractor before and, completely ignoring the beloved’s advice, was having a happy delusion that he would gently manipulate my neck, expertly freeing the guilty nerve, and Voila! Cured I would be! He has always seemed very gentle: soothing phone voice, unhurried, smiles kindly at babies, that kind of thing. He even smells soothing. I’ve never seen the beloved come out of an appointment hobbling like Quasimodo and whimpering. Unlike me. Too paraphrase one of the torturer’s past patients – Jesus Fucking Chrysler. His first attempt at shifting my misplaced vertebrae gave me the I’m-seeing-stars-and-may-pass-out sweats. Seems ridiculous to be able to give birth to whole person with no drugs but be big wussy-pants about fleeting neck-cracking. He offered me a rest, but I felt that would just be prolonging the whole affair. Instead I got the beloved and small to come in and distract me. Beloved is mildly amused, the small one is hungry and tired. My boobs start leaking through the very glam treatment gown. And it still hurts like a bastard. ‘Voila!’ he says, or something like it. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday!’ ‘Great’ I mumble, from my prostrate position on the floor, where my boobs and my eyes are leaking into the carpet. Neck is worse. Envisioning an eternity of pain, woe, being unable to pick up small or turn right, I wailed all the way home in the car. More accurately, I braced myself against the car door and the centre console and let tears drip miserably down my face, as actual wailing hurt too much. Have much more sympathy for people with chronic pain. 24 hours of pain has already turned me into a useless sniveller.
Fortunately, ten hours post-torture, am considerably improved. Still no turning right, but can lift up the small person without shrieking, can get up from the couch in under ten minutes and can contemplate a day without the beloved home to do everything and nurse me bossily. Can even contemplate going back to the chiropractor.
Have also had time to reflect on potential cause of terrible injury and suspect I may have jinxed myself. On Saturday night, after another good food day, culminating in a lush dark chocolate mousse from Chocolate Buddha, I suddenly felt awash with sugar. No Kidding, I hear. But not a little awash, not just I’ll-be-right-by-morning-pass-me-the-ice-cream, but oh-lordy-I’ve-eaten-so-much-dessert-in-the-past-few-months-that-my-veins-are-rivers-of-glucose. On the way home from lush dessert I decided that I’d detox for a month, with one designated treat day each week.
Obviously my body rebelled.