I was sitting on the table at the chiropractor's office, telling him a story about an old ailment.
When my daughter was an infant, I told him, I had De Quervain's Tendon Synovitis.
He looked–well, I'm not sure of the right word. Puzzled wasn't quite it, nor was perplexed. I wish I could say nonplussed, because how often is that the right word? But those are all too strong. He allowed a small smile to cross his face and said, "That's an old-fashioned diagnosis."
Yes, I am the queen of the whimsical ailments.
(Ask me about the time I had vestibular neuronitis, for instance. Or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. Or Hepatitis A when I was 10, and for no apparent reason. Or measles, after getting the vaccine. You now know my complete history. In reverse.)
Friends at the Big Event may have noticed the way I picked up and put down my knitting, though I attempted to mask my frustration. After all, a cruise ship is no place to be making the worst of things. I had sun and water and friends and food and drink without end. Who really needed knitting?
But my hands and wrists have been a problem since the end of February, and while my back injury, which apparently was separate, appears to have improved greatly, these necessary helpers have not. I saw my primary care physician today, and she announced her diagnosis.
There are a number of things we can try to take care of it; I have wrist guards for night-time wear and Aleve has been recommended in place of Advil, we did blood work to be sure there is no thyroid component, and I will see the sports medicine doctor in two weeks for possible injections into the sheath of the tendons.
Still with me? Because that one almost put me under.
In closing, I would like to mention that this condition is also known as–
wait for it–