In the same way that I enjoy piling awkward situations on top of each other, I am a fan of combining less than fun appointments into megastructures of miserableness. Today I finally got shockwave therapy on my achilles. This involved getting no less than three full syringes of anesthetic into the region, to the point where the surrounding skin was grotesquely bloated. Then the machine starts hammering away. Twack, twack, twack.
Him: Does that hurt?
Me: Uhhh…well…
Him: Does it hurt?
Me: How long is this going to be like this?
Him: 15 minutes. Sometimes it goes numb, is that too high?
Me: I’m paying $1200 for it to hurt.
Anyway, it did hurt. Not terribly, but it was uncomfortable. I was amazed anything could hurt with that much stuff injected into the tendon. But it was a good hurt, you know, like tiny lightning bolts blasting your cells. Good times. I’m in a boot now.
Then, for fun, I went to the dentist. I’m like China with Li Xiang, the 2004 olympic champion in the hurdles. My teeth are a source of national pride. Ladies, you want my teeth in your children, I’ve said it before.
Anyway, I have a cavity, the second of my life. Either that or there’s a fleck of dust on the x-ray – that would make more sense and seems to support the visible evidence. Still, I’m going to go back there and let him take a core sample of my molar, for scientific research if nothing else. Because, damnit, Eric Furst does not get cavities! His teeth carry the hopes of a nation!
I’ve adjusted to not being able to run, as I’ve had time to prepare. And I can sort of run; I did to get across a car infested street to the post office just a little while ago. This dentist thing has me all broken up inside. Shoot, I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Not for nothing, but this jug of grapefruit juice tastes like botulism.
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