Staring at the Ceiling
Three Lessons from Three Days of Laying in Bed
Nothing makes you feel old more than having to be stuck in bed because of a neck injury.
Well, a back injury might make you feel worse. I do remember the joy I had felt when someone I knew, someone who had wronged me, suffered from the slipped disc phenomenon and my sympathy for him was quickly overshadowed by the joy of realising that he was now old and irrelevant. It might have been an ex, this person, and he may have broken my heart, and knowing that he was incapacitated for a few weeks made me happier than it should have.
But anyway, my 60-hour weeks spent with my laptop, in terrible posture no less, finally got the better of me.
In the third episode of its kind, I woke up with pain in my neck. At first, I couldn’t point out what part of my body exactly was in pain. I had done a rather satisfying chest workout at the gym the previous day, so I was expecting my pectorals to be sore- which they were. But they were accompanied by a painful sensation in my traps and in my neck. I thought nothing of it, because any time I spent dwelling on my neck would cause me to be late to the cycling class I was due to teach in an hour. So I rushed out, taught my class, congratulated myself on completing a workout before 8am (even if it was my job), and went straight to work.
It was mid-afternoon by the time I realised that the pain was actually excruciating and that it was getting in the way of focusing on my many projects. So I said ‘fuck them all’ and with a mental flourish, booked myself a massage at the spa in the Golf Club in the neighbourhood.
The massage made it worse.
I went home and finished my tasks, feeling the pain growing under my skin, spreading as if through my bloodstream across the rest of my back. The next morning, I was stuck in the position I fell asleep in the night before. I felt like Terry from the Brooklyn 99 episode where he gets stuck after having fallen asleep. I, too, wanted to scream to be let out of my room. Of course, I didn’t need anything dramatic like that because my room isn’t sound proof and soon after I awoke, my dog wanted to be let into my room too. It was an easy escape in the end.
I spent the day in agony, told my colleagues that work will not be happening this day and that I will spend one hour handing things over to my team, after which point I will be laying flat on my back, purposefully staring at the ceiling.
And I did just that. I handed things over to my team. My team lead wished me well. I felt good for finally shutting my brain down.
I spent the rest of the day listening to the audiobook for People Like Her by Ellery Lloyd, swiping away on Bumble and watching videos of Pedro the Raccoon.
And then the guilt came. Should I check in with work?
Big mistake.
I opened my messages and despite saying bye to my team, I had 16 new messages, asking for my help on a task that really didn’t need me to be on top of things. In one of the messages, the sender even asked if they should go to someone else for approval. YES, SUSAN, THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU SHOULD BE DOING WHEN I TOLD YOU MY NECK IS FUCKED.
Lesson #1: Don’t even think about checking in with work- because they won’t check in with you.
I shut my laptop with vigour and went back to my phone. In the week leading up to this episode, I had been chatting to three different people from Bumble, three different situationships if you will. They were each entertaining in their own ways, and that morning when I was asked how my day was looking and what I was up to, I had promptly told them that nothing was up, that I was going to be taking some painkillers and muscle relaxants to cure myself of the situation I now find myself in.
Not one of them thought to ask after me.
Lesson #2: Your fuckboys are not your friends.
It’s a silly lesson to have to reinforce but when I see my blue ticked message on their chats, I feel bad for myself. Does that now mean that should one of these boys feel poorly, I can bugger off too? Maybe. Will I? No, because I’m a natural caregiver, so I won’t fuck off. I’ll wish them well and whatnot like an actual idiot.
I took my meds that night and stared at my ceiling for the next two days. I noticed that the blue wallpaper was done up rather untidily, that there were stains of the glue that the builders had used that were still smeared on an otherwise beautiful wallpaper. I noticed the size of the mosquitos that have now become regular residents of Dubai communities, especially after the storm. Whatever they were eating was making them big and quite annoying. I also noticed that the meds had done nothing for me. It was all a temporary relief. The pain was persistent and strong.
On the third day, I got out of bed, groaning as I did so. Enough was quite enough. I cannot keep staring at my ceiling. I cannot keep listening to ‘Romancing Mister Bridgerton’ by Julia Quinn anymore either. I showered and changed into respectable clothes instead of my pyjamas. I ran a comb through my hair. And hair cream. I looked like I could be going to the High Street to run some errands. I looked casual chic.
I felt determined to rid myself of this pain. The first specialist I saw, a neurosurgeon, recommended I do an MRI scan right away to figure out which nerve was causing the distress. But this was not good enough. Insurance approval for MRI scans takes ages. I do not have ages. The specialist had told me that the right side of my body is numb compared to my left. I immediately wanted to make a joke. ‘Shouldn’t my left side be the numb one? Since that’s where the heart is. HAHAHAH.’ But he was German.
So I booked myself an appointment with another specialist. This one was different. He was English, for one, so he might laugh if I make the numb joke. But he came recommended by one of the many groups I am part of.
And he did have a sense of humour. He tapped my arms and back and neck to figure out where the pain was. When I asked him to tap one particular area again, he said, ‘only if you like pain- naughty!’ and proceeded to tap again. He was camp and funny and flirtatious and old all at the same time. It was fun and safe all at the same time. I could have actually made the numb joke and he would have definitely laughed.
He recommended physiotherapy, said ‘fuck it’ to the MRI and sent me home flying. Well, not literally.
Lesson #3: Sometimes, doctors are just after the insurance payout. Don’t let that happen.
It’s sad, isn’t it, when you don’t know anymore if the doctor’s advice is benevolent or not. I suppose nothing is, anymore.