The ambush is launched at twilight with a dull butcher’s knife thrust up beneath my left scapula. I scream. Anguish radiates into my neck, across a seared shoulder and down my left arm.
My grip on reality is beaten back. Relentless pain consumes me. I struggle to fight it.
The whole world is afire.
My Forester has a manual transmission, but I somehow reach the VA emergency room. Tests are run and scans are made. There’s no easy explanation for my agony.
Opioids and physical therapy nibble at the edges. For four months, each besieged night heralds yet another day of dulling pain. Projects are dropped, activities are canceled, and commitments are withdrawn, as am I.
An MRI finally reveals a cluster of inflamed nerves in my neck.
A steroid injection brings major relief, but my left hand and forearm are damaged and weak. If steroids don’t rout the inflammation, I must surrender and have four disks in my neck fused together like some imprisoning helmet.
Surgery would be a strategic disaster, and a metaphorical beheading.
It’s life during wartime.
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