I need help standing up

Yippee! Good times.

I was making some chicken soup Thursday evening. I was digging around in the fridge, and I felt a twinge. As soon as the words "Fuck Fuck Fuck, not again, Pig Fuckin' Whore, Fuckass Fuck Fuck Fuck!" passed my lips, an electric cattleprod was firmly pushed into my lower back. I was moving slowly that evening, and a couple of beers helped (particularly Bell's Batch 7000, thanks Tim), but the next morning was when I really knew the good times were a-rollin.' I couldn't sit up, get up or roll over without spasms that took my breath away with their intensity.

I don't like to miss work, despite the fact that I don't enjoy it. However, in the light of the fact that I was incapable of even the first of many activities that getting to work required, I called in.

Lindz got out of work early and helped me out of bed (where I had been lying motionless for six hours or so). We looked up a doctor online (I hadn't needed my current employer's benefits yet) and before long, Flexeril was coursing through my veins. I'm still pretty much useless, but it's fractionally better.

It's humbling. It's frustrating.

1)Mere seconds and one wrong move are all that separate me from being an invalid.
2)I've had a richly blessed, healthy life. When pain does show up, I'm unprepared for it.
3)Who the hell turned up the gravity?
4)Now that it hurts to even stand up, I'm filled with a desire to clean, fix or improve all sorts of things around the house. When I felt fine, I had no recollection that I even have gutters, much less that they are full of leaves.
5)I do not like being waited on in my own home. I appreciate it, but I prefer to be doing the serving.
6)If I'm still crippled on Thanksgiving (my favorite holiday, when I spend all day in the kitchen cooking and sipping Beaujolais Nouveau), I will be very pissed off indeed.

But hey, what the hell. I'm alive, this will get better, and, after all, God doesn't owe me shit. I've got it easy.