My neck has a tendoncy to hurt me
By Rose Simpson
How can I hurt myself; let me count the ways.
My injuries are not incurred in any normal fashion. In fact, I rarely tell people why I am limping or why I don’t turn when they wave to me from their cars. That’s because my injuries are self-inflicted and simply stupid.
As I write this, I am suffering from a shortened tendon in my neck caused from coughing in bed. Normally, I cough like everyone else, but not yesterday, not when the second dry cough caught me unawares, with my head lain in an unnatural position on the pillow. I assume this position often, as I have pugs who like to sleep on the pillows, and I have to share mine with Ming.
The neck pain was excruciating; I jumped to attention, possibly the worst thing you can do when your neck tendon has seized up. I knew what it was immediately; I’ve had this before, once when riding on a rollercoaster, another time when I was following the kids through the Honey I Shrunk the Kids exhibit at Disneyworld. Holding my head, I rushed from the bedroom into the study looking for the Ibuprofen — or a chainsaw to cut my head off my shoulders.
No Ibuprofen. Down to the kitchen, looking for the Aspirin (well at least I would partly save myself from a heart attack). Took one of those, just in case. Climbed the stairs, back to bed where I laid for the rest of the night with my eyes open in case it wasn’t my tendon, but rather the major artery leading to my brain. If I died, I wanted to be awake.
Have I told you I’m also a hyprochondriac?
So here I sit because it’s pretty much all I can do right now. This hasn’t been the first time this has happened, nor will it be my last.
How else have I hurt myself? Oh, let’s see. Back in the Journal days, I was attending an early New Year’s Party at Canadian Press, and Freddie Chartrand, the photographer, was rapping me with ticker tape and accidentally gave me a paper cut on the eyeball. This hellish episode resulted in at least five years of pain due to scar tissue in my eye.
Then there was the time at the Westin, at a convention, when I went to sit down on a chair arm and missed, cutting a chunk out of my earlobe. Or another time I face planted on Elgin Street and ended up with road rash on my face. Or the time I smashed my tailbone while tobogganing at the Governor-General’s winter party.
My injuries are far fewer now that I’m older and don’t drink that much. But sober accidents are even stupider. I mean my foot blows up like a balloon if I don’t wear the overly priced Mephisto sandals, and my tennis elbow has cost me thousands of dollars worth of chiropractic and physiotherapy fees.
And there are also the dog-related injuries: stepped on a pug, went down the stairs, pushed by a retriever with a heavy bladder, went down the stairs. Stepped on a dog toy, on to my butt.
Not to mention the backyard injuries associated with high winds and patio umbrellas, and assorted vermin-related incidents.
Otherwise, I’m fine really, thanks so much for asking.