Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Just Me And My Friend The Evil Tumor


Maybe my tumor is like the Hulk/ Bruce Banner? Ready to bust free, all angry.

So, for some time, I thought I might have a tumor. In my back. Reading online, I learned that the sudden pain I felt, the general location, was almost always an either or situation. Either I had popped a rib, or I had a tumor.

I spent ten days in pain. Near constant physical distress, Folks where sitting was worse than lying flat on my back and lying flat on my back hurt so bad I sometimes hoped I did have an aggressive tumor that would end things quick.

My wife said I was being ridiculous, stubborn, ordered me daily to go to the hospital and frequently called me a ‘man’. By the manner in which she used the word ‘man’, I could not pretend that she was in danger of swooning any time soon, that somehow she was using the word in an appreciative, come-hither-to-the-bedroom-man kind of way.

There was little sympathy and apparently I don’t possess puppy dog eyes that make women melt. (I tried, Folks, and every time, same thing; “You don’t possess puppy dog eyes that make women melt, Dear”. Glad my wife added the ‘Dear’, it softened the blow.)

I eventually made my way to a chiropractor, a woman a friend recommended, operating under the assumption that I did not have a tumor and instead, the shovelling I was doing when the pain dropped me to my knees in the driveway, was the true source of my injury. Thinking positive, I had my back cracked and voluntarily allowed myself to be electrocuted by a woman I had just met.

It’s a funny world, full of funny people and I can say that I sure felt funny laying on that table with the juice flowing while wearing my work boots and imaging that electricity was not repairing a sprung rib (which after ten days was no longer sprung but it could be the issue my chiropractor said), but instead, that electricity was feeding an evil tumor. I could see that sucker inside my back cartwheeling in joy as the electricity made it grow.

That tumor was probably mocking my intelligence, too, calling me things like sucker and nincompoop.

But then, after a couple of weeks, I felt better.

I should be cheering, but... you know what? Maybe the electric shock therapy made that tumor super smart, Einstein smart and it’s just taking things easy, keeping things light and cheery and pain-free just to lull me before jumping out and declaring my body the site of evil tumor debauchery.

It’s possible. I’d run the thought by my wife, except she’s sleeping and she hasn’t had the opportunity to call me a ‘man’ in the past day, so I guess I’ll keep this one to myself.

Well, just amongst us, I meant. No tumor conspiracy stories are to be shared with my wife, so, shhh! All right?

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