As bleak as winter on a muddy farm in the Pacific Northwest can feel, it seems it feels bleaker still with a fractured coccyx. I have no idea how this happened, but I've apparently been walking around with a broken tailbone for nearly two weeks now. I went to bed fine on January 2 and woke up in excruciating pain January 3. Happy New Year!
Sleepwalking? Extreme nightmares? Falling out of bed?
Well, I didn't know what was wrong and tried to ignore it and hope it resolved itself, but I finally had to admit defeat. I took myself into Seattle, perplexed my physician, and at last the big round CT machine revealed the problem. By that time, we were murmuring the possible presence of a tumor, so a mere fracture turned out to be good news.
The doc and his assistant muse that the physical labor that's part of my day may have caused a stress fracture. Unusual, but not impossible. Sigh. And as I move through time, I can't help but notice that one uses one's tailbone in virtually all movements and positions. Walking hurts. Also sitting. Driving, especially down our bumpy driveway, is fun. Bending is the worst, and even lying down is not the relief you might expect. Still, I'm grateful there's no crutches involved.
The Rx? Rest and more rest and "managing the pain," AKA painkillers. No heaving bags of chicken feed and dragging mineral blocks into pasture. No shoving bales of straw off the roof of the SUV. That probably sounds like a vacation, but it worries me. I know Mark will do what he can and my friend Shelley has pledged her help. I'm lucky to live a life where I face virtually nothing alone.
OK, six weeks! Here we go...
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