Right now, my focus is on Tuesday next. No, this is no relation to Thursday Next, the heroine of Jasper Fforde's novels. Jan 26, Tuesday next, is when I get to go have my belly sliced, patched and re-sewn.
Day. Can't. Come. Soon. Enough.
Injury is in the groin, but the pain extends from my mid-thigh up to my chest, as all the muscles around the injury are starting to fail from the fatigue of compensation.
Lying absolutely still is merely uncomfortable. Everything else actively hurts. Sitting, standing, walking, breathing, talking, eating, pissing, shitting... the only bright spot is that sitting and typing doesn't hurt anymore than just sitting. Which means I can share this experience with you.
I feel like I have the snipped and sharp end of a red hot wire, the thick high-current kind, jammed deep into the flesh next to my scrotum, set to give me an electric shock with every heartbeat. Everything around it feels like a four day old bone bruise, the kind that kaleidoscopes through blacks and greens and purples.
I am so utterly NOT comforted by the inescapably character-building nature of the five days remaining between me and the nadir of this experience.