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The Way the White Queen Worries
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Colic and its Discontents
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For God's Sake, the Kid Will Outgrow It In 10 Minu...
Excavating Snottyness
From the Rafters
Ghost Town
Domestic Fictions
Move Over, Little Ladybug
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Diagnosis!
A sharp pain in my arm has been troubling me for a couple of weeks, though it has offered the shred of optimism that lives in my heart a nice workout. Each morning I wake up with the hope that I'll be able to flap my arms again with impunity.
Since the Merck Manuals (both the official and "everyday language" versions) are bedside table friends of mine, I blindly explored the nuances of my irritable elbow. Was it tendonitis, bursitis, multiple sclerosis (forgive me my wee hour paranoia), carpal tunnel, arthritis or hypochondria? Finally a wise friend told me that I should stop trying to guess because carpal tunnel is no joke.
So, a trip to my much-neglected GP has come and gone and the mystery solved. Felix has given me tennis elbow. The idea of the word "tennis" used as an adjective being directed towards me is amusing in and of itself. At the bright age of 14 I took a few tennis lessons one summer and the instructor told me that I handled the racket "like a frying pan." The only racquet sport that has been kind to me since is badminton.
It seems that hefting Felix, who is on the big side but not monstrous at 21-ish pounds, has taken its toll, so if you are inclined to carry your kid around and curl your arm in pretzel-like positions while feeding him or her, you, too may wind up with a set of unwanted, inconvenient symptoms and little you can do about it. Learn from my mistakes and be gentle with your tendons. Don't just fling heavy things around assuming the best.
On the Internet, everyone hears you scream and can offer plenty of advice, exercises, cautionary tales, and rumor. Everyone advises the RICE protocol (Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate) which is fine unless you didn't get tennis elbow from playing tennis but from lifting your child, in which case the "R" part of the equation is impossible to follow. I am stuck replacing "Rest" with "Ibuprofen and I now have one of those compression bands on my forearm. I wish having a sports injury made me feel like more of an athlete, but I am relieved.
My doctor joked that I should record this episode in Felix's baby book as the moment Felix started giving me trouble. I could do that (and the miracle here is that I actually have managed to keep a sporadic baby journal), but the thin edge of the wedge of my optimism is making itself known once again. Why sew the seeds of guilt for something so small when surely something more substantial will make itself known in time? For now, at least when it comes to Felix, I have no complaints.
posted by Elise at 2:08 PM
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