Chapter 2
2
W aking up every morning feels a lot like roulette, with the odds heavily stacked against me. Will my body be cooperative, or did I somehow manage to hurt myself during the time that’s supposed to be restoring my body?
The stiffness in my neck, followed by sharp pain when I go to roll over and turn off my alarm, gives me my answer.
Shit.
I let out a long sigh, squeezing my eyes tight and giving myself a thirty-second pity party before I open them again. If I let myself break down every day I’m in pain, I’d never get out of bed.
I gingerly sit up, using one hand to stabilize my neck. I wince as I look down to grab my phone and turn off my alarm, the stabbing pain in my neck unavoidable when it’s this bad.
Delightful. I carefully gather my hair up into a messy bun and pad groggily to the bathroom. You know it’s a bad day when it hurts to lift my arm to brush my teeth.
At least it’s the weekend. It sucks to be in pain on one of my days off from work, but that means I can cozy up with my heating pad without passive aggressive messages from my boss.
It would’ve been better to speak to you about this in person.
No, you mean it would’ve been better for you to stare at my tits as you mansplain a project I created.
It’s important to maintain a professional work environment, even on video calls.
Right, because my heat pad and t-shirt are worse than your mug that’s shaped like breasts.
I’d report him to HR, but they were hard enough to work with to get any accommodations at all. My job begrudgingly lets me work from home when I have a pain flare-up, only allowing it because they’re legally required to.
When I worked up the courage to tell my boss I needed accommodations, he laughed and said, “You’re not disabled. You just want to work from home so you don’t have to put on a bra.” How I got through the conversation without crying or cursing him out, I’m still not sure, but I’m pretty proud of my composure.
I’m less proud of how part of me agrees with him. The guy is an asshole, and I had a goddamn doctor’s note to back me up, but I still can’t bring myself to say I’m disabled. If I do, then I have to acknowledge how much my fucked up spine impacts my life.
After my boss’s reaction, I’ve kept quiet about my pain. My Dad knows I have degenerative disc disease because he was the one that took me to the doctor when the neck pain first started, but I haven’t told him how bad it’s gotten. I haven’t even told my best friend about it at all.
What’s the point? It’d just make them sad, or worse, pity me. I already do enough of that on my own. No thanks, I don’t want it. Better to have everyone assume I’m okay, so I can maintain my feeble hold on the illusion that I’m perfectly fine and capable.
It wasn’t too hard until recently. When you look at me, there’s nothing visibly wrong. Invisible disability is what my PT calls it.
I try not to call it anything at all.
My pain is like the monster under the bed. If I shut my eyes and lie as still as possible, maybe it doesn’t exist. Or at least maybe it’s all in my head and I can make it disappear by changing my mindset.
Ugh, even I know that’s bullshit. I have multiple scans and x-rays showing physical proof of the source of my pain. But sometimes it’s simpler to pretend that my pain is a personal failing rather than an actual condition, because at least then I have some control over the situation.
Okay, enough. Wallowing won’t fix anything.
I go through the mental calculations needed to determine if my plans for the day are ruined or not. If I take a hot shower, slap on the TENS unit (one of those things that uses electrical currents to try to break pain signals), and pop a muscle relaxer right away, maybe I’ll be okay enough to go out tonight. I had a bunch of chores to get done and I really don’t want to be a zombie from the meds, but I also don’t want to be in pain, and I don’t want to cancel yet another date.
That’d be five dates in a row, if I don’t make it out tonight. God, that’s depressing. This is supposed to be my time to rediscover myself! I’m single for the first time in almost ten years. Time to sow my wild oats or some shit like that.
Too bad my body is cockblocking me at every turn .
I stopped going on the apps so I could focus on getting my pain under control, but seeing my ex-husband’s honeymoon pics with the woman he cheated on me with made me impulsively ask out the barista at Cafe Celia’s that’s always flirting with me.
Damn, if I cancel tonight, I won’t be able to show my face there for at least a few weeks. Their honey lavender latte is the only thing that motivates me to get out of bed some days. Plus, Isaac is sweet, attractive, and the man behind those incredible lattes. If things go well, there could be a future of him making them for me every morning from the comfort of my own home.
Whoa, slow down. You’ve only been divorced for a year.
The whole point of dating is to have new experiences, not shack up with the first guy that’s vaguely decent. I don’t need a man to make me happy. I’ve spent most of my life living according to that false narrative, but all that got me was heartache and an abundance of emotional baggage.
No, I’m enough on my own. Though, it’d be nice to have a boyfriend right now to give me a massage. I don’t get touched much these days. At least, not outside of physical therapy.
I shower and take my morning meds, then attempt a few of the exercises the PT gave me for when I’m in pain, but most of them hurt too much to do. Who knew turning your head to the side could be that unpleasant?
Deciding to go the muscle relaxer route, I take one with my coffee and some overnight oats. I’m trying to prep meals for myself on good days so I’ll stop resorting to take out when I don’t feel up to cooking, but it’s hard to find the motivation to stay home at the stove instead of going out and doing something fun when I’m not in pain.
Once I’m medicated and fed, I microwave the heat pad and put on the TENS unit. I decide to transfer my pillow from my bed to my couch for a change of scenery. Maybe if I move around where I lie around like a lump, it’ll help me not feel so pathetic.
My foot gets tangled up in a resistance band that’s dangling out of the basket next to my couch and I stumble to the side, smacking my shin against the corner of my coffee table.
Stupid piece of crap.
Another bruise to add to the collection dotting my pale skin. At least I’ll know where this one came from. That’s the second time I’ve tripped on that band, and I haven’t remembered to use it in a week, so I should put it away. I’m trying to get in better shape, but every time I work out lately, I hurt myself. Even when I follow the PT’s advice.
I’m getting sick of all the advice. Half the time I do what I’m supposed to, and it makes things worse. My awful doctor wants me to go on a diet. And work out more. But how am I supposed to do that when I can’t turn my head?
At my last visit, I told her about the increased pain and she said I’d feel better if I lost weight. That was a first for me, and though my best friend has bemoaned the treatment she gets because of her size, I was still taken aback and incredibly embarrassed.
Embarrassed and infuriated. Increased pain is the reason why I’ve gained weight in the first place. Turns out that if I can’t go to the gym five times a week, my body doesn’t stay a size six. And I can’t go to the gym five times a week because my neck has decided it hates me.
It sucks. I feel trapped in a no-win scenario, and the person who’s supposed to be my guide to figuring out how to manage the issue doesn’t get it. Which reminds me, I still need to ask around if anyone has a doctor they like. I’m not going back to mine.
I don’t give a shit about being heavier. Going up a few sizes hasn’t done anything to make me feel less attractive. I’ve always loved the way I look, and that hasn’t changed. I’ve got great tits that are even better now. My tummy is soft, with a pooch that looks super cute in tight skirts. I’ve got legs for days and long blonde hair. The only complaint I have is that none of the weight has gone to my butt, but even with my flat ass, I’m hot as fuck.
Though, I’d happily trade good looks for a body that actually works properly.
Too bad cyborg bodies don’t exist yet… maybe I’m tempting the robot uprising, but I’d be the first in line to upload my consciousness out of my pretty, defective meat sack. Hmm, but if I were a cyborg, where would my allegiance lie if it came to man vs. machine?
My wandering thoughts signal that the meds are kicking in. My mind is fuzzy, and I search on my phone for information about transhumanism and the future of cybernetics until I’m too sleepy to keep my eyes open.
Fingers crossed when I wake up, I’ll feel a little better. It looks like we’ve got a long way to go before I get my robot spine.