To curb my appetite for pain, Stevo gave me the patch.
"It's like a nicotine patch, only it's for pain," he said as he got ready to attach it, which will (hopefully) curb the current tendinitis crisis in my right forearm.
He had to shave my butt to do so.
He did have to shave my forearm.
Which, apparently in a decent-sized physical therapy office, makes for good, clean voyeurism.
"Stevo, that's like the third guy you've shaved this week," one guy said.
(One therapist had her morning coffee while she watched; move along, nothing to see here, just one Asian guy shaving another guy.)
While not a Wookie, I am graced with an abundance of gorgeous arm hair. A thick, cut-pile carpet of fur that gets reddish as I tan.
And he's hacking at it with a cheap disposable razor.
"Sorry, sorry about this," he said.
What the heck do I care? As long as it takes care of the pain, the hair will grow back (by like, Tuesday).
The four-inch patch is a technological marvel. It's got this little watch battery in the middle of a reservoir of saline and medicine (Stevo said it was in the cortisone family, but only like 1 cc is in the patch). The fluids circulate and gets into wherever they are supposed to through my skin. The medicine is delivered constantly for 24 hours.
"Am I supposed to get high on this patch?" I asked in an email.
"Nothing that should make you high....it's from the cortisone family, and not very strong," he wrote back.
But I do feel good.
In a good kinda way.
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