Too Hot to Handle
AKA: This Summer Sucks
You’re familiar with the phrase “when it rains, it pours,” I’m sure.
Apparently, there’s a lesser-known companion” “When the heat increases, the Universe targets you as its new punching bag.” (I’m guessing the fact it doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely is why you don’t hear it bandied about as often)
I’m not a fan of summer. Never have been.
For one, it’s hot. Heat and chronic illness don’t play nicely in the sandbox together. As temperatures climb, the body tends to decide to shut down and refuse to function. Or it forgets what standard operating procedures look like—as if an increase from 77 to 78 is enough to incapacitate the brain and render your system comatose. Should you sweat? Shiver? Do you need to pass out? Maybe try a combination of the three? Who knows. (Good times)
I also happen to live in the South, where heat brings along its BFF humidity. The equivalent of carrying around a soggy blanket the entire day. It also gives meteorologists an excuse to give everyone two temperatures for the day: the “air temp” and the “heat index.” As if anyone cares about anything except what ungodly degree will be boiling their internal organs should they happen to venture outside. (Don’t pretend it’s 93 outside, Debra, if it’s going to feel like 120)
Summer also happens to be when grasses decide to bloom. Maybe that’s my plant-hating coming to the forefront since I loathe mowing the lawn, but I take it personally. Mostly because the grass pollen bridges the time between tree allergy season and mold allergy season, for me. Adding insult to injury by forcing me to endure manual labor just feels like a giant “fuck you.”
And then there are bugs. (I don’t think that requires elaboration)
This time around, though, the Universe took a look at the karmic scales and felt that I was coming up short. All the usual misery of summer wasn’t enough to balance out whatever horrors it decided I deal to the world. (For the record, I regret nothing) It could have sent a plague of locusts to even things out.
Instead, it went low—even for a soulless, faceless entity of retribution. (I should be having much more fun for this kind of punishment)
At the end of April, we added a new member to the family: Kenobi, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. It’s been a hot minute since there’s been a puppy in the house, and I’m out of practice with dodging around an eager little bundle of energy. Needless to say, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.
Cue the dramatic fall-and-slide across the kitchen fall.
I considered myself lucky, at the time. No broken wrist. (It didn’t look so hot, let me tell you) But two months later, something everyone ignored started making itself known. My elbow wasn’t happy. (You know, that other joint in the arm that I and every other medical professional ignored in the aftermath of my failed swan dive? Probably because it looked perfectly normal)
Segue the usual nonsense of getting seen by an orthopedist and waiting for an MRI, and I finally received my diagnosis: an ulnar collateral ligament tear and an additional tear of another tendon near the cubitus (elbow). (For comparison, this is the usual damage seen by career pitchers)
Meanwhile, I also noticed a stabbing pain in my lower back—near the site of my spinal fusion. (Not concerning in the slightest) One more segue of nonsense, and I was at the orthopedist who performed the fusion procedure. (Hadn’t seen him in seven years—felt like a reunion) Good news there: My hardware looked fantastic. But he suspected a pulled tendon.
(For those keeping score, that’s TWO physical therapy prescriptions. And we all know how much I LOVE physical therapy)
But wait! The Universe wasn’t finished!
How much fun does blurred vision, increased thirst, and low-level nausea sound? (Hang on—I feel like I might have mentioned those symptoms a time or two) Let’s not forget that nothing—not one single thing—has bothered to demonstrate an outward sign thus far. Makes trooping into the doctor’s office for the third time all the more interesting. (Wonder if I’m the reason she’s retiring?)
Turns out my iron is high. Iron.
Can we take a moment to laugh and appreciate the irony? Years of my life spent taking iron supplements while fibroids and adenomyosis dumped every drop of iron out of my body. Struggling not to pass out at work, stuffing salads down my throat in a vain attempt to keep color in my lips. Before finally sacrificing the damn uterus so my blood cells could finally return to normal function.
And now my body is storing iron like it’s the last hours before a Black Friday Blowout sale?!
(Believe me, I’m trying to figure out what I did to piss off the Universe. Hell if I know)
At least my skin hasn’t turned blue yet, so there’s that. (Not really sure I can pull off the Smurf look)
Most people have a summer schedule full of vacations. Family reunions. Concerts. At least the occasional trip out of the house.
Me? My summer calendar is packed full of doctor appointments.
Well played, Universe.