Well, dear devoted followers, it is done.
Not Dishonored 2, I spent twenty goddamned hours trying to ghost my way through one mission (you’ll know it if you’ve been there) and then tried to peel my own face off when I saw my Final Stats screen reporting that two bodies had been found. I am still debating whether to lodge a formal complaint about that, because it’s bullshit. There’s no way any of those bodies were found. No. Fucking. Way. Someone would have had to have been moving furniture, and that’s just not a thing that underpaid guards who have muttered arguments with themselves over whether they know the whole alphabet do on their nightly rounds of a creepy-ass mansion. Basically, if any of you happen to know someone at Bethesda, let them know that I’m looking for them, that I want answers, and that I know a good hiding spot with room for another twenty or thirty bodies, easy.
That is not what I sat down to tell you about, though. I swear. It’s just that I’m working today from the public library in Crappy City where Husband works, and the windowed view I’ve got looking out over the city is distinctly… Karnaca-ish. This city always used to make me so sad when we lived here, because there were so many beautiful old buildings that have run down, fallen apart (literally, sometimes all that’s left is the fancy bits and a few structural supports surrounded by a pile of crumbling brick) or been occupied by rats of one species or another. I should take my camera out and show it to you, if it wouldn’t give away too much. (Husband still prefers anonymity, as do I, I’m afraid.)
So let’s back up, shall we? I do that to you a lot… sorry.
Husband is back at work as of today – yay!
How is this suddenly possible? Well, through the magic of Dr. Nemo.
Our first trip to a pain specialist was a bust, which was why you didn’t hear of it. He was, in a word, awful. If I had to choose another word, I’d have to go with dismissive, then change my mind to ableist, and I’d finally have to just explain about his level of incompetence. Example: “I don’t see anything on the MRI, so it seems like your pain is muscular; there’s nothing we can do to treat muscular pain.”
Dr. Nemo (not his real name, but his real name is long and Russian and his staff calls him Dr. Nemo) on the other hand, is wonderful and totally gets that muscle pain is a bitch and knows loads of ways to deal with it differently than we have been.
Plus, he looks exactly like this:
We’ve still got more work to do, but for now, Husband is on some different meds (hit me up in comments or message if you actually want specifics – I know chronic pain is the ass-end of suck and if we’re doing something your doc hasn’t tried, I want to help) and the change has been so goddamned magical that I’d call bullshit if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. You guys, he was on four grams of Advil a day, and now he takes two pills – also known as a normal human dose – maybe twice a day.
All of this happened just before Christmas, because that’s pretty typical for my life – both the fact that it took three months of pain for my poor husband to get in to see someone who knew what the hell they were doing, and the fact that Christmas is just sort of magical.
For now, I’m driving him down, just to make sure the commute isn’t too much for him. Which, long-time readers will have noticed, means that I’m driving the car while my husband sits in the passenger seat.
I had to adjust the rearview mirror.
Lord above, I thought his ass was going to implode, he clenched so tight! But – ladies, back me up here – I was wearing a clip kind of low in the back, which meant that I was holding my head differently, which meant that I needed the mirror tilted downward. Which is easier to fix: the mirror the next time he gets in the car, or my hair when I get where I’m going?
738 words later, I deliver you know to the conversation of the day; your reward for sticking with me through this long ramble. Goodness, I covered enough, didn’t I?
HIM: Do you want to use the highway? Because that’s on the left…
ME: Only if I want to go north…
HIM: … Oh. Yeah, I guess you could use the other one…
ME: Do you want me to go to Northton?*
HIM: (small voice) Maybe…
ME: Aww, honey, do you wish you worked in Northton?
HIM: (keeping petulant, childish voice) Yes!
ME: You could work in Northton, if you want.
HIM: I could. I could just go up to Evan’s work and say “can I work here now?” And they’d let me.
ME: Yes, I’m sure they would. But, for today, let’s get you to Southton.**
ME: Only because you’ve already told them you’re coming, and it would be rude to leave them waiting.
HIM: (sighs) Fine.
* Major city north of us, where we go for most Big City things (our city is medium-sized)
** Famously crappy city south of us, where he currently works***
*** Now I’m wishing I’d named them Duckburg and St. Canard. How many of you would have gotten both of those references? Someone please debate the relative size and awesomeness of those two cities with me – I am absurdly prepared for that discussion.