Pins and Needles

Random fact: around 25% of women will suffer hirsutism at some stage of their life.

Geography, genetics, medications or certain medical conditions will up the ante.

I’m not sure what the percentage is for ladies who get told about it in a not-so-tactful way.

After almost 3 years of pain and nerve damage in my right leg and foot (from another apparently ‘random’ surgical mishap) I am still searching for a solution. I know I’ll never get permanent relief- the doctors have already given me that terrific news- best I can hope for is short-term benefits. I have tried physiotherapy, occupational therapy, hydrotherapy, and any number of alternative therapies in a bid to ease my pain and improve my movement. Some more successful than others.

A while ago I once again found myself flat out and face down on a treatment bench. My torturer, I mean therapist, today had already stretched and massaged my injured side within an inch of its life, and now decided to finish off with some ‘dry needling’. The very term also made my mouth go dry with apprehension of what agony may lay ahead.  Or should I say behind.

I’ll get to that, because here I should mention that I had to take my girlchild with me, being a pupil-free day at school, and no husband at home to have her (I had managed to offload my boychild on a playdate. Just as well as it turns out). She’d sat nice and quietly through the initial assessment and treatment thus far (as quietly as a 9 year old can anyhow) but when my physiotherapist brought out the needles she was all eyes, and all questions.

“Are you really going to stick those in mama?”

“How far do you have to stick them in?”

“Are you going to use all of them?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Will you make mama bleed?”

And so on.

So there I am laying there, half-bare-buttocked, twitching in direct relation to the depth of the needles (they were huge!), eyes closed, trying to remember to breathe, all the while pushing my face through the cut out in the bench with a lovely little sheen of perspiration breaking out; and what do I see when I open my eyes again?

My darling daughter’s face, about 2 inches away from mine, peering at me in concern:

“Are you ok mama? ‘cause you look like you’re really hurting!”

“I am hurting darling, but I’m ok,” I lie through my teeth and through that wicked little face-hole.

And yet Little Miss Chatterbox chatted on:

“Random question mama, but is it ever possible for ladies to grow a little moustache?”

How is that random?!  Her face is mere centimetres from mine, I can feel the beads of sweat on my upper lip, and yes I admit it, I am approaching that age where the females in our family start to sprout a few unwelcome hairs here & there (conversely, while the male members lose ‘em!)

So now am I not only in pain, feeling embarrassingly exposed, with enormous needles in my butt and back…I now am only too aware of hair somewhere!!

To both their credit, there was much denial - and no laughter- from either therapist or my daughter. And I have to say, as a distraction tool it worked wonders. Wasn’t thinking about the pain at all was I?!

Until the needles started coming out again, and my little girl gave a narrative about the various drops of blood appearing.  And how red and sore my butt looked.

Quick, let’s think about hair removal techniques again instead.

Oh and next time I’m going to make sure my appointment is on a school day!

 

Jx

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