I guess I won’t have to worry about having something to complain about when I see the doctor in two weeks, because every time I feel free enough from pain to relax a little, I do something that reminds me that the pain is right there, waiting to be reawakened. I start every day with such high hopes lately, but so far I haven’t been able to get through one without losing my forward momentum.

That’s how, after a day of doing everything I should and nothing I shouldn’t, I can still sit here in pain because of twisting my hand the wrong way when lifting the skillet off the stove. Yesterday it was letting a fork out of my hands and trying to catch it before it dropped into the dish water. Big, dumb mistake, that one. It can undo a day’s worth of rest and ice.

Mostly, though, I think it’s the build-up of little things that ends up doing me in by the end of each day. Or rather, by the middle, since I haven’t been getting very far past noon without having to take something to relieve the pain. It doesn’t hurt to type, so I type for an hour, and then it does hurt. Or I’ve been pulling the handle on the recliner without pain, so I reach for it one more time and the fire shoots through my arm. I doubt I’ll have to make up any symptoms when I see the doctor, as long as I keep bringing them back without really trying.