I’m not sure I hurt any less this morning than I have other recent mornings. The pain in my shoulder, should I absentmindedly roll to the right as I’m waking up, is a sharp, “loud” pain that chases all other thoughts out, and clears out the early morning cobwebs with a flamethrower.
This morning, however, my brain told my shoulder to shut the hell up, because we wanted more sleep. Nothing’s torn, nothing’s broken, there’s no need to yell, just conversationally remind us that the right side is a little tender, and we’ll roll back to the left.
I got another two hours of sleep, which I needed badly, because I had an uncharacteristic hour of near hyperactivity last night after popping the 2nd Lortab. I was up until 1:30am musing on political matters, of all things. I definitely would have been better off sleeping.
So, here I am, all painkillers have worn off, and every time my shoulder makes noises about how nice I need to be to it, I tell it to shut up. It’s had almost a week — a week I had other plans for, I might add — and I’m done babying it. There’s some CC impingement, yeah, and so I still have to be careful through some of my usual range of motion, and there’s exercises I need to do, but I’m done treating my shoulder like some blown-glass knick-knack that grandma can’t bear to see tossed around. It’ll get an ice-pack and a hot-pad, but it’s going to have to EARN those by supporting my arm and hand for a spot of cartooning.
The pain in my shoulder has become the whining of a spoiled child. The brat is about to get spanked.