“Kill me” – Me .
I don’t think I’ve ever said that with more sincerity than I did last week. Sure, my tolerance for pain isn’t something I’m renowned for, but I doubt it is a defining trait for many of you either. You might like to greet your mates from time to time with a bit of “Dillon! You son of a bitch“, but truth be told, you’re probably just another regular-arse dude/gal with a correspondingly normal body, typical of our species. Prone to pain, a finite organism, destined to fail.
But hey, you’re (probably) young, enjoying all that life has to offer. Breaking down is what happens when you’re old, and your indulgence in a hedonistic lifestyle of excess will undoubtedly ensure that you will never reach old age. That, or advancements in medical science will eventually overtake your projected life expectancy, ensuring that you remain just shy of death’s grasp, and exist in perpetuity. Either way, it won’t happen to you, no way! Well, guess what? What if I told you that you can become a feeble bag of self-deprecating human waste in one easy step, no matter what your age? Want to find out exactly who actually cares about you? The answer is easy. Burden them with having to look after your every whim and basic human function with a simple irreversible spinal injury.
Back in December last year I had a disc bulge in my spine. And no, it didn’t happen instantaneously. I wasn’t trying to lift something incorrectly or pretending to be a hero by picking up some stoopid heavy item. My injury was essentially a result of about 15 years of physical labour coupled with the fact I am just a pathetic modern day Homo sapiens, just like you. The bone spur on said vertebrae didn’t help matters by acting like a crude paleolithic shiv and aiding the desiccation of the disc, rendering it bereft of its only function I know of – cushioning stuff. “Will the fluid ever return to said disc?“, “When does the pain usually fall below ‘longing to enter endless sleep’ levels?”, “Will the recent spate of ‘artistic’ atrocities mislead people of the future into ignorance of the fact that Jeremy Brett was the quintessential incarnation of Sherlock Holmes?”. I may never know the answer to these vital questions.
Good: Thankfully, I have an awesome “spousal unit”, as Dubya dispassionately termed his significant other this week (and I thought I was the one with cold blood!). Mrs Lizard has been fucking amazing at returning the favour and looking after me. Seriously, I would probably still be spread-eagled on the lounge, afraid to move and crying like the hapless piece of shit that I am without her. Having her around to pick me up, dress me, take care of cooking and do everything short of wipe my arse has reduced my overall despondency immensely. Bear in mind that she is doing this while 9 months pregnant, due to birth our first child in a couple of weeks and is feeling the extra burden herself. If I was gravid, I’m pretty sure I’d just remain sedentary for most of the day, slovenly piling obscene amounts of food into my ugly head. Each morning she sets me up on the lounge with an iced coffee, a banana, bulk codeine, laptop, headphones, all the remotes, and a mound of pillows that resembles some kind of Yaxchilan temple; their combined cushioning and her pampering make me feel like I’m gently floating on the feathers of Quetzalcoatl himself. And no, that’s not the opiates, these things are too damn weak to get high from… I’ve certainly tried.
Bad: Reading comprehension is not your strong point, is it?
Ugly: Fuck, does this even matter?
Being able to talk shit online with you people has made being cooped up inside, alone, and virtually immobile a lot easier to cope with. Also, hearing some of the similarly shitty stories a couple of you bowl dwellers have shared with me has helped snap me out of my own self-absorbed orb of monumental pity.
Y’all know the deal: good, bad, ugly, and this week I’m adding a fourth category – metal (doesn’t have to be music)!