Silence

It's been a while since I've written anything, and I'm sorry about that. My last round of MRI scans was on the 17th of last month and it really took a lot out of me. Actually, I was in the machine for a little over three hours, and my body didn't take it very well and is actually still trying to recover from the experience about a month later.
Since my spin isn't curved like normal spines, my tailbone was digging into the metal table the whole time. Walking for the first few days after that was an experiment in pain management. I had an interesting bruise on my ass, as well. But eventually all of that went away. What hasn't gone away is this new pressure on the back of my head and neck that is causing what feels like painful contractions behind my right ear going down into my right shoulder blade. I can barely use my arm and sleeping is an adventure.
While I'm trying to not overdose on Tylenol, we have been told that my results have been sent to the surgeon for review. I'm anxious for the return phone call. Having looked at the results myself, with some help from google because obviously I shouldn't be looking at the results without a doctor present, I can state in my humble non medical opinion that I am a genetic mess. What the hell was my DNA even doing when it was building me? Or is that RNA? Biology was many years ago. Whatever. Someone was drunk at the wheel of my genetic processing plant in utero. It's not just my brain that's a mess. No, I get extra. Lucky me!
Now I have to wait patiently for the phone call that tells me whether I'm going to become a zipperhead or not, I have to find a way to keep me busy. Because if I don't fill my brain with some sort of activity, I start getting anxious. Then I start having anxiety problems, and the number one rule of Chiari malformation is that the brain has to be lovingly cradled at all times. Unfortunately you can't remove it and put it on a silk pillow, so that means it's flesh prison, namely your person, has to be as calm and comfortable as possible. And anyone who has lived any amount of life on earth knows that that is particularly hard to do at all times. Especially when you are predisposed to being a quivering sack of neurotic tendencies overshadowed only by bouts of horrible depression you try to ignore with misplaced dark humor and sarcasm.
So my rooms are littered with molds for my business, bath bombs no one has bought yet, wax no one has bought yet, yards of cloth bought for a sewing class I haven't started yet, and a sewing machine that broke immediately after we took it out because my luck is the best. I also have a stack of sewing books I have to take back to the library before they charge me ten cents for them.
But I'm still waiting for that call.

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