I feel a little sorry for myself tonight, sitting her under the influence of prescription painkillers and muscle relaxants. After over two weeks of being sick and trying desperately to get over it (2 rounds of antibiotics), I took my brilliant son--who read 10,000 minutes last school year--to Lagoon and rode all the spine rattling rides he could find. For the record, while I enjoy the thrill of the rides I actually dread them the whole time I'm in line.
The next morning I woke up with a horrible pain in my neck and shoulders, like I had slept wrong. Except it never went away. Yesterday, 6 days later, I finally stopped torturing myself and went to the doctor. I don't know why I waited so long to seek relief. I can't drive because I can barely turn my head to look around and I can't even stand to be hugged by my kids because of the pain. Sleeping has been next to impossible.
But I signed on to participate in a charity author workshop (not as a presenter) in Ogden at the Treehouse Museum, which sounds like a fascinating place. Actual authors will be there like Brandon Mull and Shannon Hale, and I really wanted to be able to go. Except now that's become impossible. I can't drive safely without my meds to alleviate my pain and I can't drive safely with my meds because they're so powerful.
I'm especially disappointed because I wanted to get another signed copy of Shannon Hale's newest book for my cousin Becca who lives in Indiana because she's such a fan. A copy of Brandon Mull's Pingo for her daughters wouldn't be amiss, either.
Oddly enough, either because the meds have alleviated my pain so I can concentrate on other things or they've made me loopy, I'm feeling really creative. Maybe I can get some actual writing done this weekend, since I'm not leaving the house for the next few days.