I wanted so much for those steroid patches, stuck for 14 hours each on two separate days like limpets to my hips, to work.
I really, really did. I wanted the stuff to KO the bursitis inflammation and pain.
But they didn’t. It sounds nuts, but my hips actually hurt worse while I wore the patches, as if the imperceptible electrical impulses that drove the medicine through my skin and down into the inflamed bursae irritated and aggravated them instead. I even had had ominous RA pain in my groin (originating in the ball-and-socket joint of the hip) when I walked, and at times my bones ached from my hips to my knees down my shins to my ankles.
Just shoot me.
I didn’t mean to pin so much hope on this new therapy—by now, I ought to know better, after all—but I’m so disappointed. And I’m embarrassed, too, a reaction I didn’t expect and which makes me a little angry at myself. See, I have to go back to PT on Wednesday this week and tell Joe that his miracle cure didn’t work on me. That nothing sees to work on me.
Pity-party, anyone? Sheesh. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed; it’s not my fault that the patches didn’t work. Besides, he already knows the first round failed. I gave him the news on Friday when I went back to the PT clinic for round two of the patches. He said we’d try them one more time, then. If they still didn’t help, we’d stop that particular therapy.
They didn’t. So much for that.
I’m bummed, gang. The ultrasound treatments ordered by the orthopedic surgeon (also as a last-ditch effort) aren’t having the desired effect, either. I do the stretches I’ve been assigned three times a day, but for nothing, it seems. Well, okay, I’m a bit more flexible than I was before I started them, for what that’s worth.
Finally, I haven’t been back to the gym since mom had her emergency stay in the hospital last month. I don’t know if working out is a factor or not. To be honest, I’m sort of afraid to. This current bout of greatly increased bursitis pain started after I began working out at the gym. It might have nothing to do with it, or it might have everything to do with it.
Indecision is my middle name.
The only thing that does work—briefly—is icing. I dread it every time. The icepacks hurt like the blazes for the first five or ten minutes, but by the end of the 20 minute sessions my hips go numb and I can’t feel anything for a half-hour or so.
I’ve got to get my mind around either learning to live with this hip bursitis pain and disability for the foreseeable future or seriously consider surgery to remove the inflamed bursae once and for all. My mind cringes away from the latter, but if I’m honest, the former doesn’t sound like a better option. Sigh.
Okay. Enough. On the bright side, Mom has been feeling fairly well; my cat, Mouse, is a goof, a true clown who makes me laugh frequently; and the deep rose-pink camellias in the back garden are in full, gorgeous bloom. A skunk waddled across the front garden in full daylight one day last week (I thought it was a very large black cat until the big white stripe registered); and my aunt and I named one of the feral cats she feeds on her front porch every morning and evening “Richard Parker,” after the Bengal tiger in The Life of Pi. The cat is a pretty orangey-brown tabby. The name fits him and makes us both chortle. Finally, it rained yet again today, an all-day, soaking downpour that fell as feet of snow up in the high country. This one may have just squeaked us out of a drought summer. My fingers, sore as they are from the roller-coaster barometric pressure ups and downs, are crossed.