Apocarpalypse

The Universe must think I'm a fucking joke.

I'm not apologizing for profanity. I'm not bleeding it out. Fuck censoring this shit. I'm pissed.

To start with, I am constantly sustaining bullshit injuries. Initially, the idea for this specific piece was going to be to create a visual literary art piece with all of the grammatical errors that occur as a result of typing while injured. It was going to be meaningful and heartfelt and tear-jerking-ly emotional. (I don't think tear-jerking-ly is even a word, but honestly, the English language in itself shouldn't exist as unnecessarily complex as it is!)

Either way, I consider it a success already -- for the simple fact that I am still technically emotionally charged.

Back to my point --

You know the saying: "Whoever is praying for rain can stop"? That. It's that. The whole "God-is-an-asshole-kid-on-an-anthill-holding-a-magnifying-glass-and-I'm-the-ant" bit is what is outlining the apocalypse that is my reality.

OR SHOULD I SAY APO-CARPAL-YPSE?!

I am a ball of rage. So much so, that I took my splint off and am dealing with the almost constant whitenoisebullshitnervepain of being hit in the "funny bone". (Which is ironic because, although it isn't a bone, it is humerus.)

I want to give South Baldwin Regional Medical Center in Foley, AL a public shout-out because they fucking misdiagnosed CARPAL FUCKING TUNNEL in my wrist over SIX YEARS AGO. How do you fuck that up? HOW DO YOU FUCK THAT UP?! H O W ? !

And a better question: fucking W H Y ? !

Ahem.

It's infuriating. I'm an author, I write for a living. I have a full life and am busy most seconds of most days. I just listened to my family sing happy birthday to my daughter while eating her lunch in the other room (she's 3 today). And, as much as I do want to be in there with her and spend time with her, I have to take advantage of the few minutes I have to get any level of work completed.

My dad is having a quadruple bypass in 5 days.

The Universe is a dick. Shit happens and I get it but at this point, it's just becoming excessive. Making impossible choices is a part of living, that's true. I understand why I sustained this injury, I understand the events that happened that led up to my life being where it is and that of my family as a whole feeling unmanageable amounts of stress.

But my fucking dominant hand? Now? Why? On the same fucking day as my dad's heart catheter procedure? Are you serious?

The most inconvenient fucking thing that could have happened actually happened. The damage is already there. Even with the surgery that I need, which will improve the functionality and lessen the pain, I'll always have problems with the nerves in my right arm. It's been untreated for so long that nothing will repair or reverse it to a degree. By continuing to work, I'm making it worse and I can feel it while I type. From the numbness creeping into my fingers, the weakness in my elbow, muscle spasms throughout my arm, and the nagging ache in my shoulder; I can feel it.

And, it isn't just the feeling. Fuck the pain, I have chronic pain all over, I'm constantly hurting to some degree. I think a lot of people deal with stuff like that, just like a lot of people deal with carpal tunnel in general. Had this happened between writing projects or at the tail end of completing a book, it wouldn't be such a travesty.

But it didn't happen during a more convenient time and that's the point. I'm in a situation where I have to step up and start making bigger life moves so that I can take care of my family. I'm the one who has to become the breadwinner. There is no one else. The only way I can do that?

By fucking writing.

And this is why it pisses me off so much: I don't feel defeated, I feel blinding fucking rage because logically I am defeated. I am fucked either way.

If I wear the splint and take the time off, I will get better. I could save myself the trouble of extensive nerve damage. If I keep it off and continue working, there's a chance I won't be able to continue writing in the future, even with surgery. At least, not at the capacity required to make it as a successful author.

And yet, if I take the time off, my entire family will be financially fucked with the business end of a proverbial pineapple.

So what do I do?

I do the fucking thing.