It began during Friday night. Dawn brings
full awareness of the throbbing in the groin.
Stubborn denial keeps discomfort at bay
through Saturday's regular routine
trusting Tylenol to secure the night's rest.
At six a.m. fatigue succumbs to brief sleep.
Stoicism lasts only to mid morning.
The five hour wait in Emergency
results in a steroid shot in the left shoulder
and some anti inflammatory pills.
Sunday is not at all a day of rest.
Monday 2 a.m. the thigh now burns as I
dream how to turn off the iPad App
and Buddy Holly's refrain, "misery,
misery! What's gonna become of me?"
The Labour Day Emergency room is empty
at 5 a.m., the receptionist's greeting jovial,
"Back so soon? Too much dancing?"
The nursing staff is kind and caring.
A thorough examination complete,
a steroid shot in right shoulder
and three Tylenol tablets later,
the stymied doctor dismisses me
with a scribbled morphine prescription
and injunction, "see your doctor soon."
Tuesday 2 a.m. the now numb thigh
symptom seals my internet diagnosis:
Meralgia paraesthetica,
a kind of carpel tunnel groin syndrome
confirmed late afternoon by Dr. Michel,
"Pretty name. Classic case. No real treatment.
Check back with me in a couple days or so."
On day six the fiery rash blooms hotly
Tracing clearly the ragged thigh nerve lines;
the nasty pox virus dormant for sixty years
puts a lie to the Meralgia theory.
Named correctly the Shingles lose their sting.
So Saturday becomes the day of rest.
Lying on my bed stuffed with antivirals
and morphine I float in the sky with the clouds
outside my window and ponder the Psalm:
"When I see Your heavens, the work of Your fingers…
What is man that You are mindful of him,
and a son of man that You care for him?"
Sometimes even in misery awareness
of the wonder of one's being dawns.