cosmicgirlie

spouting all the crap you never say out loud.

Pain

Because SCREW YOU OSTEO PANTS.

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It’s not like I needed them anyway.

Wednesday, saw another Osteo appointment. I confess I look forward to the appointments mostly for pathetic and slightly weird reasons. 1) It’s an opportunity to get out of the house (yes, seriously). 2) I like the smell of the room (yes, really). 3) Mr Osteo is lovely and makes me laugh with his stories about his girlfriend fails. 4) IT MAKES ME FEEL BETTER.

However, I become apprehensive about appointments when I become blasé about them. Which seemed to happen on Wednesday.

Obviously, OBVIOUSLY, I forgot to check I had on suitable Osteo Pants. There’s nothing like walking into the waiting room, sitting down cool and calm, and then realising you’re wearing the wrong pants. It’s at the this moment, obviously, OBVIOUSLY, that I start sweating. Because y’know, LIFE IS JUST TOO EASY SOMETIMES.

I have my regular, not-quite-granny-pants on, I’m not trim, I’m sweaty, I need a wee and I haven’t eaten so I’m full of wind. Obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

As per usual, I was greeted and told to go through and strip down. Which I did at lightening speed, because I needed to check, um, stuff. So, I was super delighted when I looked down to see I was wearing reasonably dark pants which wouldn’t show up a sweaty front bum patch. I was dismayed, however, to see a ton of straggles of hair protruding from my pant at the tops of my legs. I mean, I tidy up, but I don’t mow the lawn because DANG that stuff itches like bitches when it grows back. Needless to say I started shoving the stray hairs back into my pants all the while praying that Mr Osteo would not forget his usual courtesy knock before returning into the room.

He knocked and entered, just as I crammed in the last hair. And wondered how hairy my ass might be, since I hadn’t checked in a while.

(Few weeks.)

It was all ok! I was fine. He was fine. IT WAS FINE.

I didn’t even panic so much when he started with back massage and I had to put my face in the hole in the bed table thing. Of course, this was the point when it occurred to me that people with colds and are recovering from mild bronchitis tend to snot every where, and it’s usually free-flowing. Which became apparent when I did turn over and pretty much snotted into the hole.

This was the point where my lovely caring Osteo realized my nose was super blocked, and decided to try and get me to say “A one way ticket to Nottingham please”, and then fall in fits of laughter. He’s such a lovely bloke (yes, sure). Of course I then threatened to snot over him. Because I’m nice too.

The good news, is that after quick manipulations, declaring how huge my Dr Marten’s boots were (“Bloody hell, they’re massive!” “Yes, thanks Andrew, my size 8 feet are huge, I appreciate you pointing that out.” “No no, *laughing* I meant they’re really tall” “Tall? Dude that ain’t nothin. I’ve got WAY bigger.” “*bemused silence*”) and clenched faces (I NEED TO WEE AND I CANNOT FART BECAUSE IF I FART I WILL WEE AND WE WILL DROWN IN A SEA OF NOXIOUS SMELLING WEE), I am told I don’t need to be seen again for 10 – 14 days. YAY ME!

It’s amazing being able to move around and stuff, and wincing only half as much as I used to. The pain is still there, but the intensity is a frillion times less than what it was. I’m to do core strength exercises; and though Mr Osteo keeps suggesting Pilates but that bores the shit out of me, so I’m sticking with hooping (and trying to see if I can find someone who does Hoopilates). I can hula hoop for about 30-45 minutes now and it’s a fucking cool workout, so I’m hoping it works the applicable muscles.

So now, just to get through the next 2 weeks, wearing whatever pants I like, and not breaking myself. And also, not wondering if he’s telling me to come back less because he’s offended by my no Osteo Pants.

“Slow down?” Dude, that’s like giving up meat.

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It’s barely halfway through the year, and it’s already been MENTAL.

M. E. N. T. A. L.

The weddings I’ve had so far (ALL of them) have been fucking amazing. My Granddad has been here for nearly 5 weeks (he returns home in just over a week). My business has BOOMED. My polaroids and film work has gone flying. I’ve actually been able to support us a bit, financially, for the first time since Noah was born. I discovered the difference between cheap and expensive nail polish (honestly, it’s been a breakthrough).

So when Mr Osteo says “ok you need to give your body time to heal; you need to SLOW DOWN”, I literally cock my head and make that Scooby Doo noise.

Slow down? Say what now? Eh? You want me to what now?

Slow…eh?

Thing is, since I started osteopathy, I ALREADY feel better than before. Sure I hurt a bit at times, and I still ponder whether I should have readily given my crutches to my Granddad, but seriously. I’m like a MIRACLE.

Not really. But I’m blown away with how different I feel after sessions.

Unfortunately, he’s still all “yeah, dude seriously, SLOW THE HELL DOWN”.

I can’t! I literally cannot. I’m running and sheer adrenaline every weekend with the fucking awesome weddings I have. How do I slow down at a wedding? It’s kind of not in my nature. I’ve always been full of life (when I’m not on the Slippery Slope), and I get bored FAR too quickly if I have to stay in one place for too long. And then there’s all the equipment I carry around and stuff (I’ve actually LIGHTENED my load this year…) as well as the hundreds of miles I drive each month, to get to the various locations.

Then there’s the obvious; trying to make sure I actually engage with The Smalls from time to time. I’m not very good at that, but I do try. Once in a while. Sometimes. In my head.

Mr Osteo keeps saying I should try Pilates, in order to strengthen my core. I confess I fall asleep at just the mere mention of the word, and would prefer a more active way of core strengthening. Y’know, like hula hooping around the lounge. Or bouncing on an exercise ball in the garden. And yet, as I sit here with my shoulders aching again already (sorry Mr O…) and my right foot tingling with pins and needles (really sorry Mr O…) and my left hip and right butt cheek feeling rather twangy (seriously Mr O, we BOTH saw this coming though, right? …sorry…) I’m thinking all of those activities are kind of off limits.

Asking me to slow down is like asking me to be a vegetarian. I’d outright decline at first. Then when I realise the guilt trip that comes with being asked, I’d try it. And I’d probably last as long as one meal to the next (breakfast to lunch? Maybe. Depends on if there’s a packet of salami in the fridge for me to pick at). And that’s about as good as it would get. I could slow down. But truth is, a) I don’t want to and b) I don’t have time to. “Well then you should make time” say the masses of people. I would LOVE to make time, but that kind of means not working. And that’s not an option.

Anyhoo, I continue with Osteo in the hopes that it will at least keep the worst of the pain at bay, at least until “wedding season” is over and things calm down a bit. And I go into hibernation. In theory, I’m thinking that if I can just maybe drop from 6th to 5th gear until then, I should kind of be ok. In theory.

Is it wrong I still want to go bounce on the trampoline, though?

Osteo Pants (Saga): PWNED.

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Finally. FINALLY. I was down to my third and final pair of osteo pants, and all I could do was pray to the Gods of Underwear that THIS WOULD BE IT.

I couldn’t afford another session of my vagina eating my pants. Or having pants which looked like I’d just pissed myself. Or pants which were a bit, um, “flappy”.

Wednesday evening’s appointment, I put on my size 12 Sloggi “boy shorts” pants, made sure the pant liner was a tiny one and not likely to give me an unexpected wax, and headed out. THANK THE GOOD GODS it was all ok. Dry, covered, patch-free, liner hidden and IT WAS GOOD. I spent the entire session trying NOT to point out how effective my pants were being. Which was hard, because when you’ve finally cracked something which has been bothering you, you want to tell people about it, no?

Well I didn’t tell him, but I did grin a whole lot.

I guess, on reflection, that may have seemed a bit weird, as I naturally felt more comfortable and relaxed throughout the session. I didn’t feel the need to wave my arms around a whole lot (“Look! Up here! I’m wearing a crap bra which my boob is probably going to fall out of because this bra is stupidly a bit too big, but that’s got to be better than watching a vagina eat pants, right?”) which was great. I relaxed better, which would obviously mean more effective treatment.

But I do recall grinning a whole lot.

I wasn’t sure if he was hinting at something, when he then started telling me the story of a girl who had been stalking him an awful lot. Like, pretty much tailing him for weeks, like a psycho. I then wasn’t sure whether to tell him that I’m not a psycho, and that I’m just really happy that my pants are big and not sweaty. But I thought that might sound weird to someone else, so I just opted to continue grinning broadly.

Then he told me he had broken up with his girlfriend, but then got back together with her soon after.

At this point, I decided to change tactic and went back to waving my arms around a lot, which I think helped, because then everyone stopped thinking about my pants. Not that he was thinking about my pants, but it reassured me in pretending that no one was thinking about my Osteo Pants.

So well done, Sloggi, you are the winners. Now I just need to order a load more but in different colours, because I don’t want Andrew to think I wear the same pants all the time, because that would be gross. Much like at today’s appointment (yes, 2 appointments a week for a while because my body is fuuuuuuuucked) when I dropped my trousers and realise I was wearing, what looked like, the same pants. They WEREN’T the same pants. It’s just that I’d taken a gamble and bought two pairs of the Sloggis, because they looked so comfy. So naturally when Wednesday was an Osteo Pants success, I planned on wearing the other Sloggis for today’s appointment.

…hey Andrew? If you ever read this? I was not wearing the same pants twice.

Useful Thoughts On Osteo Pants

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Ok. Ok, I thought it was ok. After the first two sessions of being Very Unprepared, I was like, “yeah, YEAH I GOT THIS. I know this shit now. I am DOWN WITH THIS SHIT.”

Osteo has been brilliant. I had my third appointment, and greeted Andrew by leaping out of the car at him (he was watering the garden), and trying not to launch myself at him in an enthusiastic bear-hug. “LOOK! LOOK OMG I CAN MOVE!” (Here I did a really questionable high-kick.) “And, and, I can bend and stuff!!!” (Here I may have done something that looked like a 1950s hand jive twist, as demonstrated by a white person trying to be a black person trying to be white.)

And then I did that bouncing up and down on the spot thing, which I often do when I’m enthusiastic and overly happy about something. So, y’know, almost all the time.

After the stresses of previous sessions, I was determined to be prepared this time. Front garden trim: check. Decent bright pink Osteo Pants (I adore brightly coloured underwear. I teamed them with a green bra. It’s called fashion. I’m sure): check. Clean and fresh: check. Gas free: che- uh, yeah, good enough. And even more so, given my current (new found) agility, I was determined to get to a point where he could say “Yes! You’re doing brilliantly!” So naturally, I was a bit of a live wire.

As I followed him into the consultation room, I suddenly realised my horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE mistake. All that bouncing around had made me rather warm. Stood there, still fully clothed and discussing running around at Saturday’s wedding, I suddenly realised my  pants  were, um, damp. Horny damp? Nope. That would have probably been less embarrassing. He left for me to undress. Whipped off my trousers to see, to my HORROR, huge sweat patches all around my crotch. Omfg.

Soooooooo you know when you have sweaty ass prints on a chair?

Yeah, imagine that, but on your bum.

Your front bum, no less.

Originally I decided to pretend to ignore it, but as he once again hoiked my leg under his armpit (Why god, why? Are you laughing at me? Is this payback? Did I miss one too many Sundays as a kid, when I rebelled against Sunday school? Geeeeeeze.) I had to apologise for being a bit sweaty, and blamed it on the beautiful weather.

Yeah, that’d work, totally.

Until, I ALSO realised that sweaty pants also make for flappy pants.

FLAPPY. PANTS.

Oh. My. God.

That thing where, fabric goes all weird when it’s damp, and seems to temporarily lose it’s elasticity, and just doesn’t sit right (in the right place). Well. Oh God.

While he did his usual manipulations, there was a moment of quiet while he fixed my back. With my face in the hole in the bed thing, I chose that moment to ask the most stupid question to ever ask any kind of osteo ever in the history of ever.

“Sometimes, when a person comes along and is lying on your bed-table thing, do you ever think to yourself that you really just don’t want to have to touch them?”

In my MIND, I was thinking perhaps he’s dealt with people who, y’know hadn’t washed for maybe a few months. Or perhaps, someone who had an extra arm and 14 nipples. When the words left my mouth, I was wondering what the actual fuck was wrong with me. After him mumbling something about professional training (because obviously) and the usual standard of clients being quite “normal”, he then went on to say the last words I expected.

“Well usually, I suppose I get a bit wary when someone comes along, say, straight from work, and they haven’t cleaned up yet. You know, like, they’re all sweaty.”

All. Sweaty.

Like my disgustingly sweaty Osteo Pants. NICE.

That was the moment when I decided to not ask any more questions, and to also research my pants a little better. I contemplated some kind of manoeuvre where I might be able to slide through the hole in the bed table thing, across the floor, under the door and never reappear again. I also thought about making sure I ALWAYS have baby wipes in my bag, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing. I always have spare pants; that’s like some unwritten Law Of Woman. But exactly when or how I’m supposed to change my pants when my osteo is RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR is beyond me.

I’m one pair of pants down, and have 3 pairs to go. They are big and black, pretty sure I can’t go wrong.

In other news, I’m now signed off to fortnightly appointments. This reassures me!! YAY I can move! …unless he’s trying to tell me something.

Shit.

Useful Thoughts on Osteopathy

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I’ve recently started going to an osteopath, because as far as I’m concerned, I’m FAR too young to be thinking of hip replacements and shit. I’m in a stupid amount of pain which has gone on WAY TOO LONG, and I’ve finally succumbed to osteopathy. I had my first session last week Tuesday. It was great! Andrew is lovely and a bit blummin brilliant, which, y’know, helps.

However, there were a couple of things I overlooked in rushing to my first appointment last week (running slightly late because I was staring at @motherscuffer’s boobs and children during a Skype consultation, standard).

I arrived, hot and sweaty, which didn’t cause any immediate concern. Until I realised I was going to have to strip down to my underwear. And then realised I wasn’t wearing pants quite as big as I would have appreciated. I sure as hell wasn’t wearing a thong (because I’m not insane and also, I don’t need to feed my ass anything), but even my old comfy pink and blue stripy pants from H&M weren’t as big as I would have liked. Even more so when I remembered I had a (fresh, thank god) panty liner which I could guarantee wasn’t *quite* in the right place.

Thankfully, I’ve pooped in a birthing pool and on a hospital bed in front of numerous people, and a few others have seen a child or two expelled from my crotch, so dignity was long gone out the window. I still wept inwardly when he hoiked my leg up under his armpit and I realised I wasn’t exactly, um, “trim”. I confess I got home and admired just how much forest was protruding. Note to self: sometimes it’s still nice to have a tidy front garden.

It didn’t take long to forget the worst parts of the consultation, as, for two whole days I felt GREAT. Sweet LORD I could actually lift up my right leg and not scream, I could actually pick up Isaac and give him a cuddle, and the sweet joys of being able to sit on the sofa without feeling like I was being kicked in the back was UHMAZING.

And then pain set back in. To be fair, Andrew did warn me to take it easy (I kind of did) and to appreciate that the exercises would not be easy (I sort of knew). By Thursday, holy sweet baby JESUS I bloody hurt. So at 3am, I lay in bed wondering when is it appropriate to contact Andrew, and text something like OMFG YOU BASTARD WTF HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BACK I AM IN AGONY YOU ASSHOLE. I mean, he’s a LOVELY bloke, but I was pretty sure he had secret plans to kill me by this point. Only, he was doing it in such a way that would make him look innocent. Y’know, “ohhh look, I made your back feel GREAT, and you can walk and stuff, and aren’t I lovely oh by the way did I neglect to mention that by the weekend you will probably want to chop off other limbs to distract from the pain”.

I still did some of the exercises. That lasted about 1.5 minutes each time, since I pretty much couldn’t move. Hah! Hilarious.

By sheer luck/miracle/pity from The Gods, my appointment this week was moved from Weds and brought forwards to Tuesday (yesterday).

I still hadn’t mowed the front lawn, but I sure as hell had a decent pair of granny pants to wear. Disappointingly, as soon as I put them on, I remembered why I hardly ever wore them. Too granny-fied? No, I remembered they gave me a severe case of the Camel Toe. Awesome.

So what did I do to compensate? Well obviously I layered up with 3 of the slimmest panty liners I could find, in order to stop my vagina from eating my knickers (why couldn’t it be my ass? I don’t mind my ass hanging out, why couldn’t that eat the pants instead?). There’s nothing like turning up to an appointment, stripping down to your bra and pants, and trying to yank your knickers out of your vagina without your osteo seeing and thinking you’re trying to give yourself some.

It’s really tough to do.

Anyway, thinking I was all set and totally on the ball this time, I lay down on the table and then my stomach rumbled. And then I remembered I’d had a bad case of wind all day. I hadn’t actually thought about how I was going to control my ass from letting one go, while stopping my crotch from eating my knickers, all the while with a bent leg rammed under Andrew’s arm. It’s amazing how, when you’re desperately trying to think of distracting conversation, your mind can go reeeeeeeaaaally blank, and all you can think about is whether the fart will be ripe because of the 9 hour barbecued pulled-pork you’d eaten the day before.

On reflection of the two sessions I’ve had so far, I have come to a couple of conclusions.

1. I wish I’d tried this osteo before because, even though I’m in a lot of pain, there is already significant improvement.

2. I’m gonna need some bigger pants.

Physical freedom and musical denial.

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Since The Smalls were born 4 and 5 years ago, my body has pretty much been wrecked. SPD and sciatica fucked me over good and proper during the pregnancies, and during Isaac’s delivery, I’m pretty sure I wrecked some of the nerves when his head slammed into my pelvis. HILARIOUS. (Not.) Which is a shame, because pre-kiddos, I was ridiculously fit and athletic. I was stupidly fit physically, and no movement presented a challenge.

For the last 5 years, I’ve considered myself lucky if I can make it through the week without feeling screaming pain in my hips.

Needless to say, that’s a REAL bitch when it comes to my lifestyle. A wedding photographer, who genuinely wants to pick up her cello again. Not to play seriously, mind, no. I don’t want to go back there. But I do miss it. More so than I anticipated, and certainly didn’t think I’d want to play so much, so soon.

Sooooooo today I finally went to see ANOTHER osteo. It took me long enough, only because I was so sick of hearing “here, go do these exercises, you’ll be fine soon enough”. It gets really dull hearing that when you’re NOT fine soon enough. It also sucks hearing that, when you’ve had MRIs and X-Rays, and none of them seem to be very conclusive. In fact, I found the whole thing to be desperately tedious and dull, so I decided to go with the Grin And Bear It approach. Unfortunately, more often than not, “Grin” was actually “Grimace”. It’s a really sucky thing, and I’ve honestly tried not to go on about it in public or with friends and family. Spending days at a time on crutches, unable to feel my feet properly, and pretending everything was fine was getting reeeeeeally old.

Today’s appointment REALLY well. I’m nervous of osteos, as the ones I’d seen previously shortly after Isaac’s birth were too kooky for me, even by my standards. Turns out, this one is kooky, but brilliant with it. I can deal with that. I’d be lying if I said I’d come away feeling like I could have skipped home. The good feeling lasted about an hour, and now there’s tingling and twanging in my foot, leg, hip and back again. But that’s ok, I know the drill now. I don’t mind that! Start doing the exercises in a few days, go back next week, see how we get on with session two.

The hard part?

Being told I’m not ready to pick up my cello again.

I’m actually gutted. I know it won’t be forever, but I am genuinely gutted.

I’ve been secretly keeping my fingers nimble and sight-reading up to scratch by playing my violin (compensation) and piano every so often, tied in with flute for when I was really bored/desperate. But it’s not been enough. I have a mahoosive stack of cello sheet music sitting by my work desk. I hear Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony and I mentally remember every single note of the cello part. I casually look up the last orchestra I played with, and see they’re doing some of my favourite stuff, AND pieces I’ve always wanted to play.

And I’m denied.

I should have known it, really, that my core wouldn’t be strong enough for it. My body is shot to shit, and doesn’t have nearly as much of the strength it had before. And I hate that. I blame it on being lazy, not being bothered to do something like yoga or Pilates. The thing is, I don’t actually like yoga or Pilates  I get bored. I’d rather be up and about riding my bike, scaling climbing frames in parks, doing cartwheels and handsprings. Maybe finding an adult sized scooter and chasing The Smalls. But I didn’t do that. Because of the pain. Because of the pain which is far worse than pushing an 11lb baby which is facing the wrong way, out your vagina, with SPD and no medication. I would do that again. In a heart beat. If someone said to me, today, right now, that in order to get rid of this current pain forever I would have to repeat Isaac’s birth, I WOULD DO IT IMMEDIATELY.

As it stands, that’s not an option. So I have to continue with yet more physiotherapy and osteotherapy. And hope I can deal with the cello cravings.

And pray I don’t collapse during any of this year’s weddings. Hmm.