I actually spent some time on my hair this afternoon, straightening it into a soft, touchable, bouncy bob. It's been awhile...which has made Nick one happy man as he's more in love with my naturally curly locks than P. Diddy ever was with J-Lo's backside. I am female. I, therefore, suffer from grass-is-greener-syndrome: I have curly-ish hair...thus I straighten it. I've lacked the energy to devote to such practices as of late.

I've been slowly feeling more and more run down, and this week it came to a head...or a butt, if you will.

My tailbone has been an issue the past several years. I'll have periods where it aches, lasting only a few days, and then most of the time I'm very ginger with it. I don't sit on hard seating, I try not to sit for long periods of time much at all (my last foray into torture being my insistence on seeing Dead Man's Chest...and the pain in my ass was nothing compared with my reactions to the movie—lordy it felt like somebody went and stuck thumbtacks in my scalp.)

But before I raise a ruckus and let you do battle over whether or not it was a good movie—because it just wasn't (and I'm of the fraction who LIKED Catwoman—how do you say, "easy to please"?)―I've been experienced out-of-this-world pain during the last week, and besides zapping me of all energy and preventing me from competing in tomorrow's Waunafest Run, I'm scared.

By Tuesday morning, when I could no longer stand upright, I knew i had to have my tailbone examined. Tears were close to the surface all day, part from pain part from fear...the tailbone is where it all started for my momma. In fact, having my P-A look at it wasn't enough.

She ordered X-Rays...coccyx and pelvic...she, my beloved Barb who returns my calls personally, was the one who discovered the Satanic tumor called Carcinoid that sought to turn my mother's life into a living Hell. "Preliminarily," she said that day, "The X-Rays look fine...but because you have such a bizarre family history, I want the radiologist to look at them tomorrow. I'm going to give you a call either way, so you WILL hear from me."

I had a dentist appoint Wednesday afternoon...I got my butt and my mouth serviced the same week—MAKEOVER! But as I walked to my car, I noted the event light blinking on my silenced phone. I listened to Barb's voice asking me to call her back about my X-Rays. "If it was nothing, she would have said," I mumbled to myself as I adjusted in the driver's seat, sitting on my left foot. The pain was growing more severe as time went by. I called back after reaching home only to learn that something didn't look quite right and they wanted an MRI.

Thursday, the next day (and, incidentally, but not to confuse you, today's yesterday), the pain had grown so severe that I had to admit it would be my last day driving long distances for awhile, and I requested a change in medication to Barb's nurse due to ineffectiveness and nausea, which Barb happily granted. I spent my half-day nearly passed out on the couch in a stupor of Ibuprofen and Vicodin with a wad of ice resting atop my very swollen derrière. "If I'm not better by tomorrow, I'm going to have to stay home from work," I admitted to myself in the quiet of the thunderstorm, amidst the loneliness and solitude of my fright. By last night, doped up on sleep aids and more Vicodin, more Ibuprofen yet, I slurred to my Nicholas, "As of right now, I'm going to work tomorrow."

At 2:00, having been jolted awake from a throbbing pain that had me in full hyperventilation from the moment I opened my eyes, I stumbled about blindly, stupidly, panicking at the sensory overload, the shock...I nearly fell down the stairs to get to the kitchen freezer to retrieve some ice...I contemplated bashing my head into a wall to force an unconsciousness but fortuitously managed to talk myself out of the exercise and made it back to bed. When the morning alarm sounded and I awoke again, I knew without a doubt that I couldn't survive a day at work.

I called my clinic to advise them that the situation had changed, the pain level had increased substantially, that I was quite swollen now and barely able to move. Barb called me back, saying she didn't really have an opening early in the day, but that she really wanted to take a look at me, and to come over right away, that she would squeeze me in. From there, I had a task force of nurses rallying by my side—examining my swollen tailbone, taking blood, expediting the scheduled MRI—and then most humbling, when the X-Ray tech, Carol...the woman who had me crying the Tuesday-before in her professions of how dearly she loved my mother and how close she still holds her within her heart...said she was going to drive me to the hospital to have the MRI done. She gave me her phone number to call if I couldn't get a ride back. I was overwhelmed.

So I spent an hour lying on my back, which was a devilry I wouldn't inflict on my worst enemy if their tailbone were in the condition of mine, and waiting for the end of the scan, or unconsciousness, if I should be so lucky. I wasn't.

The techs helped me from the bed and helped me dress. I wobbled to the foyer and called Nick with an update, and just about passed out in the telling. He came to pick me up and I decided to email my dear aunts the latest update once I was home...fed, iced and drugged. I'm told the clinic should have some feedback on the tests this afternoon, and if I haven't heard anything by 4:00, to call the clinic and they'll call the hospital...there is something to be said for going above and beyond the call of duty, and my clinic, my mother's clinic, so does.

It's been a terrible week, full of a lot of bad things...but my heart has flooded with the affection showered on me be those I hold most dear. I love you my dear aunts, Nick...thank you for your love, support, and worry.