Of Shocks and Needles

So, the other day, I got my very first nerve conduction test. Yup. Nerve conduction. Some will go "Pish! Tosh! It's nothing!" Others will say, "Dear God what is that?!" and some will just cringe. Basically, a nerve conduction test is to find out how well your nerves are sending electrical impulses to other parts of your body, namely your extremities. I did the idiot thing and googled, WebMd'd, and youtubed it. I watched this lady get her arm shocked several times and then a long, thin needle stuck in it repeatedly. She was calm as could be but in her eyes, she wanted to smack a bitch. I thought to myself, okay, needles are nothing new. I can do that. Been poked and prodded a million times, no worries, but the electrical shocks? What. The. French. Toast. I'm not a fan of an electrical current running through any part of my body. I'm not Frankenstein, not his bride, and this isn't The Green Mile either. Let's just put it this way, if it weren't for my meds or chamomile tea, I wouldn't have slept that night.
The next day was upon me and the only phrase I could manage was, "Oh shit." Repeatedly.  I was nervous as could be. When I'm nervous and expecting pain, I tend to giggle uncontrollably and get motor mouthed. Palms sweaty and verbal diarrhea in full swing, I laid on that table and the tech put small, sticky electrodes on my fingers.  She took this slightly taser looking object and squeezed a little gel on my skin. I'm assuming it's the same gel used for ultrasounds. At this point, I went from Edward Delacroix to Hermione Granger, fear leaving somewhat and morbid curiosity taking hold. Questions spewed from my mouth with gusto, "How often do people curse?", "Anyone ever faint?", "Is this more like getting a tattoo or touching a badly hooked up microwave and oven at the same time?" and finally I asked the one question everyone wants to know. "What IS this going to feel like?"
Thank God she was good natured and found this all amusing because I wouldn't have been able to keep silent to save my life. She asked me if I'd ever used a Ten's Unit, I hadn't. Anywho, on to the shocking. First shock was in my right wrist/forearm area. Not bad at all. I honestly didn't even feel it, unless a small tap counts as pain. I then felt like I had worried for nothing, until she told me that she would be increasing the strength as she moved around. The higher up my arm she went and the higher the strength, the more I would feel it. She got about to the area near your armpit, which I call the bingo zone, since, I'm not going to lie, I have a little bit of bingo wings I wish to dispose of to the depths of whichever cursed underworld of your mind's choosing. I think I'll go with the one from Disney's Hercules because things there at least seemed to shrivel away. It was about there that I felt a lovely crackle that made my mouth shut. I felt like I'd been whipped. Oh hell no. This was it, this is what Metallica warned me about when I listened to Ride the Lightening!
"Okay, all done with this side. Now, if we can rotate, we're going to do your left." Huh? You mean...all hat worrying for nothing? No sweat! So we frolicked along picking daisies and singing 'So Happy Together' until it was done. Back to reality, she finished shocking the left side and this rather serious and brisk Asian fellow walks in and says, "Now, I'm going to use the needles and you'll be done." I'm thinking to myself, "This is great! It's so much less painful than I thought and soon I can go home and snuggle with my hubby!" Funny enough, the need pricks didn't hurt very much at all and bled very little, I did say ouch on instinct when he stuck the first one in my neck and told him as much. The only troublesome part was when he wiggled the needle around a bit. It left an ache. Before I knew it, all was said and done and my husband and I were able to leave on. Free and clear.
That night however, jumping Jehoshaphat. I thought my left arm was made of glass and that I had shattered it completely, my shoulder felt like it had an ice pick delving into its deepest secrets, and I was not a happy camper. I was knotted up like an apricot couronne and my husband was desperately trying to "knead" out the twists and lumps. The aches were tremendous. The next day I found myself still stoved up and very uncomfortable. That's when I decided it was time to put my foot down and take a piece of the lovely hydrocodone that I was prescribed for my monthlies ( or shall I say, every four monthlies ), and caching! We had success. Of course. In my stupor, grandly then did I realize that I hadn't eaten a single bite and stomach was doing the grandest of flip flops. I was in the throws of the gastrointestinal Olympics and absolutely inebriated. I am an absolute lightweight when it comes to medication, I don't drink or do any drugs not prescribed to me and haven't since I was a teen. Let me say this, at half past ten in the morning at twenty five, I felt sixteen at half past four in the morning.
The other problem with opiate medications and I is the fact that not only do I get nauseated and inebriated, I somehow become rich and invincible. Yes, I cleaned my house from top to bottom, polished every stick of furniture, saw my reflection in every dish and vase, and I removed every spec of dust I could hunt. GO ME! Then I was off to my laptop. I told all my friends just how much I loved them, wrote my mother in law about gardening, and ordered a load of things online which, thank God, never made it out of my cart because I got distracted by vomiting from taking opiates on an empty tummy and watching Reign and fell asleep. Being woken up by my husband, in a puddle of my own drool, hungover, and thirsty, I decided that unless I feel like I'm going to die, no more opiates.
So there you have it. One procedure out of the way and more to come. Seriously though, guys. If you need to have that test done, get it over with. Take ibuprofen or whatever your choice on a full stomach after, and don't worry as much as I did. It kind of sucks, I'm not going to lie, but it's worth it to know what's going on and try to fix or at least treat what's happening.
Being Chronically Ill is no joke, it does suck, but remember, we're not our diseases or disorders. We're still us. As time goes by, hopefully you'll get to know me better. I'll be able to tell you about my life and not just my illnesses. So, I bid you all a good day or good night wherever you are and whenever you read this. I wish you all good health and good humor.
Signing off,
Just Me.

Welcome to Chronically Dysfunctional

Chronically Dysfunctional is a blog about my life being a chronically ill, disabled, married woman in her early 20's. I decided to cope with this sometimes scary and stressful journey, I'd blog about it and share my experience with others that may be going through something similar. So far, I've being diagnosed with Epilepsy, PTSD, Panic Disorder, and Degenerative Disc Disease and the hits keep on coming. It's painful but I generally focus on the humor of things rather than the woe is me part of the situations I find myself in. I want to talk about my life and the things that I am going through as far as diagnostics and treatments. I'm blunt and point blank about it based on my perspective. I don't fall in to publicly correct at all and have a sarcastic sense of humor about things. I'll talk about the nitty-gritty and even gross aspects of things because I live, everyone lives it at some point and well, someone has to. I lost reserve a long time ago. So...here we go!