A number of years ago, i read something in a book that made me want to throw the book across the room. I don't usually act on that desire - as I've always thought, bad idea chez roscoe. if it didn't hat a bookshelf, it would hit artwork and the book would still be there, smirking at me. But this book used a horribly trite and completely wrong phrase when it offered "the pain was like an old friend."

Bullshit. Pain hurts. It is never welcome. You are never happy if it comes in and sits with you over tea and cookies. Pain is, they say, useful, sure. But pain is not friendly. I find that line to be so impossible to read. Put yourself in my fuzzy slippers for a week, then let's talk.

I've lived with a chronic pain problem since I was in my 20s. I had unsuccessful surgery and then a slew of other stuff that causes me to hurt every day. And while I'm reconciled to it, mostly, there are days when oh hell no, I am not. It is exhausting, it is distracting, it is limiting. I don't want to deal with any of that, but I'm stuck. More things keep showing up.

Last year, I angered a friend on Facebook by objecting to something in a post. I was NOT objecting to what she said or passed on but rather, the issue was something like grammar or a typo. I just have this tic about typos when someone is writing for "any" sort of publication. Even here, where I screw up a lot and try to catch all the errors. Errors, typos are time-consuming until you figure out what the word really was. Time-consuming is bad. I don't always have the energy to sit here as long as I'd like, so I'd rather not read bad writing. But there it was. She came at me, charging me with being cranky and negative and curmudgeonly. Yes, I was depressed but I was hard to deal with.

I apologized. I have no problem apologizing. She had read my comments as ad hominem and that was incorrect - I was bugged by the writing, not the ideas in it, but so? I apologized for upsetting her and we pulled my comment. After that accusation, though, I was sorely tempted (wouldn't you be?) to object, saying "but, but, but here's all the nice things I've said! Lookie here, see this post? See the picture of the adorable hedgehog? See where I told someone they were funny or talented or wonderful. See where I thanked someone for what they said or showed us? See where I gave credit where it was due? See where I acted as straight woman for someone so they could finish the joke? See? See?

I didn't of course, because that seemed really thin and I let it go. But I really didn't let go, apparently, because here I am justifying why I am such a crank. Because yes. I am.

I became disabled in my late twenties and it's been downhill almost ever since. I've gone from occasional cane use to constant cane use to crutches to scooter to power wheelchair which I use every minute of every day that I don't spend in or on the bed. I don't use couches and chairs because I often can't get up out of them. I've spent decades on prescription painkillers, starting with codeine, then years using vicodin and when that was no longer effective I tried two different heavy-duty time-release stuff. One works very well and is the reason I function at some level every day. I take more pills than I'd like but manage on muscle relaxants, pain meds, meds for neuropathy, topical stuff. I can't work, but I have a thing about "accomplishing something" every day, even if it's laundry, writing a blog post, making an appointment I've been delaying, cleaning up the piles of kipple that follow me like Pig-Pen's little dirt pile.

I've had a bad back since 1970. I have really messed up hip sockets. There's the severe curvature, the stenosis, protrusio acetabular. I have that inexplicable condition that involves fractures, thati've written about. Last month things got worse. (see previous blog post).

Yesterday I saw a doctor I see maybe once a year. She is a physiatrist, a specialist in "rehab medicine", a non-surgeon who deals with not-so-obvious pain issues. I wanted her take on what had happened. I brought her the x-ray report, and told her about the bruising. Knowing it's all after-the-fact, I still wanted her to know.

She said, and I tend to agree, that I probably tore the last remaining bit, string, thread holding my left rotator cuff together. It's wasn't 100 percent gone. The tearing caused the bleeding and the pain was probably from that bleeding until it could escape my shoulder and disperse throughout my body. That, she said, was the point at which I probably felt better. So what started as a damaged rotator cuff is now a ruptured "former" rotator cuff. Eu. One hundred percent "there's nothing there" gone. Probably a one-off, won't happen again. But there is nothing to be done about it. Surgery is pointless (and too dangerous for me, which is why I don't have hip replacement surgery either) and you can't fix what ain't there. There is nothing that can help here.

On to the rib fractures. What caused that? We don't know. Will that happen again? Maybe. Is there anything I can do to avoid it? No, probably not.

So I came home and crawled into a huge depressing hole. When you know something in your head, when you really already know something and you've really known it for a while, well, tough. It did not help. I spent the rest of the day thinking. A lot. About how I have a lot of life ahead, but it won't get easier. I've lost a few more inches, which makes even the kitchen shelves a challenge. I may develop more rib fractures (still no idea how or why on those). This morning was the first time in weeks that the inflammation eased enough so that I could be touched on my back without me wincing, my skin was too sensitive (inflammation maybe?) I haven't risked putting on a tee shirt for close to a month, and am relying on stretchy stuff and silk. I keep doing stuff that reminds me that while I'm healing, there's something still wrong in that shoulder. I want a little futuristic warning to appear on one of my lenses of my glasses reading "don't twist" just when I'm about to reach for that book.

And for the first time in years, I ended up in "why me?" land. I know, I know, there is no answer to that. I know there is no plan. I know it's a fluke that this happened to me. Oh gods, do I wish it had happened to someone else. Why yes, I am that vindictive and bitchy, thanks for asking. I live a life of tamped down frustration. I don't haul it out very often but dammit. I coulda been a contender. I had such plans. I wanted that Ph.D. I wanted to run that agency or form that new non-profit that would make a difference in people's lives. I wanted to be part of "The Innocence Project" or prisoners' rights work. I wanted to be published. I wanted to do so much.

I don't do this often. Every five or ten years or so, when something rather ordinary reminds me, and I am reminded of what could have been and it hurts, oh gods, it hurts. Of course I've found ways to copd. Of course I've re-focused and managed to find ways to feel like I'm contributing. I've found ways to work around the pain, the lack of energy, the uncertainty. I've done some good.

So I get to have my angst attack. I could have done without it, you know, but nah, it was going to come. As it did when this very same doctor asked me why I wasn't using a power wheelchair and threw me because I wasn't that bad yet, was I? Actually, yeah. She was right. She saw what I couldn't.

I've had to pry my fingers off some big ambitious dreams. I can get away from the pain, most times (sometimes i can't and that is hell.)

We work around it a lot. There is unbelievable joy in my life. There is laughter and love. There is warmth and support. Books and computer games are great distractions. But my body will never again me something I can rely on. I have another rotator cuff that, last we checked wasn't doing so well either, but I use that side far less (I'm severely left-handed)

I hate thinking about life being fair. it's not. That is bullshit of the first order and I've never believed it. My father, many years back, while he was in recovery from alcoholism, said that was an epiphany for him - that no one promised you that life would be fair, but if that's how you expected it to be, you could be so dismayed, so depressed. And sometimes you drank to deal with that disappointment.

Hate it,hate it, but oh dammit. It's not fair. It's scary and unpleasant to realize that nothing will get easier. It's not like I didn't know that but.....

I know people who would advise me to keep a positive attitude. I can't. I know the reality. Yes, medicine makes huge advances. I can't imagine how I would have managed 100, even 50 years ago. But I am not the "positive thinking" type. It' doesn't mean I'm negative but I tend to be realistic.

So alas, yes, I am cranky and curmudgeonly. I have a short fuse at times. I really do point out the good stuff too but I'm seen, apparently as a bitchy woman. Okay, so this is why.

So now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to head out for a latte, maybe to stop at that shop and buy something shiny, and try very hard not to think about all this.