My wrist was inflamed again.
Well, Old Cow had to take another day off. This time it wasn't the old tenosynovitis acting up, but some kind of wrist arthritis. A huge lump had grown on the back of my left hand, swelling it up like a hoof. Even moving my fingers hurt. I only got a little relief after acupuncture and a moxibustion patch during the day.
The doctor said there was no way this thing would work instantly. No matter what, I'd need needles for at least a week or so. Anyway, I just had to rest more and be more careful.
What a mess. I remembered that when I used to write ten or twenty thousand words a day a few years back, I didn't have this many problems. Lately, I'd already been paying close attention to resting—I was practically writing in a health-preserving mode. So why did so many ailments keep cropping up? Was this what it meant to repay a debt?