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Rescue Chickens

The Kindness of Strangers

Does my arse look fat in this soul?

The demon of paranoia re-visits old Sket

On The Road......

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2006-11-21 - 11:17 p.m.

I would say that my usual low level hypochondria has recently become an art.

"An ART?!" you say

Yes, an art. At the moment I've had the passing fancy that I have a small patch of bone cancer which has put a secondary in my neck and that they are going to open me up for exploratory surgery and just shut me back up again with the news I've just got days left.

...oh yeah. OR they will have to remove my arm just above the elbow. MY ARSE WIPING ARM at the elbow at that.

My mother doesn't help. I guess I can understand her; she's lost loads of friends and relatives to cancer - 3 very recently, and she has THE THING. The scourge of all sane people everywhere:


She recently confessed to me that she thought she had bowel cancer (it was fruit induced wind), JAW cancer (one of her teeth mysteriously broke off - I suspect that was due to her addiction to nicotinell the gum you chew to help you quit smoking. She gave up 6 years ago but then became addicted to this bloody gum. I bet it was FULL of sugar and she had become a chain chewer)

She has fuelled my half paranoia that there was something seriously wrong with me by calling me in a worried tone asking how I was as she had been consulting THE BOOK and wondered if I had bone cancer. SEE, I KNEW! My passing bout of paranoia, the bout my rational side had talked me out of was right!

In my heart I know that there isn't anything significantly wrong with me but SHIT, that paranoid little bastard that sits on your shoulder, whispering into your ear can be bloody convincing when he gets you late at night or when you are particularly pissed off or in pain. I dismiss the fucker as often as I can but he sure knows how to yank my chain.

Basically, about 7 weeks ago I had a pain in my arm. I ignored it. My pain threshold is pretty good and I don't worry about trivial things (unlike Phoe is is worse than anyone I've ever met - she is near hysterical when I leave bloodied footprints in the bathroom after a close leg shave which leaves pretty flaps of skin dangling down the backs of my legs. She insists on putting fucking CREAM on these 'wounds' and then sticking plasters all over my legs. Fer fecksake. I'm TOUGH, I don't need no steeeenkin PLASTERS!)

...anyhoo. The pain in my arm persisted and didn't just go away as I'd assumed it would. Hmmmmmm..... I started to have a feel around (aromatherapist heal thyself) and detected a point of pain on the bone near to (but not on) my elbow. It felt bruised but there was no bruise. I know I haven't knocked or injured the arm and I'm left handed so I haven't strained it. Still I ignored it. I started to notice a sharp stabbing pain in the side of my neck around the same time but heck, that'll be nothing. Well, it's 7 weeks now and the soft tissue neck pain comes really fucking sharp most days. The arm is pretty much agony and has sapped the strength. I can't hold anything which is heavier than a feather in the hand now. I've rubbed ibuprofen gel into it, felt for lumps and basically got my stupid head working overtime. Most stupid things go away after a short time so why, after 7 weeks do I get so much inexplicable pain I have to bang my arm against stuff to try to ease it (weird logic, huh?). The twinges go down my entire lower arm now.

Fuck - I'm growing a withered arm for christmas!

I'm at the doctor tomorrow for a check up. I cancelled the last appointment 'cause i felt a right tit moaning 'My arm hurts'. Well, after a rough day Friday I decided to just go. I reckon he'll say it's nothing and that it'll go away on it's own/some kind of bizarre strain which takes a long time to heal whereas my Mother is talking about sending me the money to see a specialist if he just tells me to go home, take paracetamol and rest it (my bet for the results tomorrow). She reckons I should threaten him with

DUM, DUM, DUM!!!!!! The worried mother card.

I can almost hear him laughing to the staff the minute I walk through the door. Half of me wants to cancel 'cause I'm being a stupid tit who is being swayed by the grade A hypochondriacs around me whereas the other half is telling me that they are right and that I'd better pack good pajamas for my trip to the land of the dead.

....sigh, it must be my age.

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