Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Somebody shoot me

Pain is a constant companion of mine. I have some herniated discs in my neck that can range from a minor annoyance to excruciating. I played sports in school and landscaped for most of my twenties, and the forty-something me isn't too overjoyed with the twenty-something me's complete disregard for my body. Of course, my twenty-something me would call the forty-something me a pussy - and wouldn't be completely inaccurate, either.

But over the last few months I've discovered a new type of physical pain that deserves a special classification. An agony so perverse and detestable that I think I've come as close to understanding childbirth as I ever could. Except with childbirth, you know it's going to end, and you can get an epidural. And before you ladies jump on my case, I'm not saying this hurts as bad as childbirth, I'm saying it's as close as I can get to understanding it.

I've had a toothache for six months now. I've had a cap put in and a cavity filled. I've been to the dentist more in the last three months than I'd been in the last twenty years. And if I had a gun in my house right now, I'd shoot myself. The pain is constant and over the last five days has grown to such proportions that I can't sleep for longer than twenty-minute spans. I pop Vicodin like candy, and it's powerless against it. I can't lie down because it triggers a pain attack - and I don't know if that's a medical term, but I'm coining it as one right now.

I have an appointment with an endodontics specialist tomorrow to see if they can ascertain the origin of this. If he can't, I'm going to tell him to take all of them out. I'm not kidding.

It starts on my right side. I've determined it's usually the "six" tooth on their charts - the one that kind of resembles a fang. The throbbing begins, and pressure builds, before shooting up to my temple. Within minutes the entire right side of my face is being pelted with tiny fireballs - my gums, my ear (fuck it hurts my ear), the sinuses in my cheek, and in the really bad attacks, down my throat and into my nose.

I can't sleep. I can't concentrate. I can't write. I'm not a father or a husband. I'm a blubbering fool, calling for his mommy and reaching for the Orajel and another Vicodin.

I don't really have a point for this post, but I thought it'd make me feel better. It hasn't.

1 comment:

Kevin Anderson said...

Pain is fuel for creativity. Sounds like you are full up.