And the verdict . . . er, diagnosis is . . .

Rotator cuff strain.

Yep, I saw the doc yesterday, and after putting me through a series of painful maneuvers, that was the diagnosis. He gave me meds and exercises, which I shall do after blogging and before heading off to meet Leah and our friend, Linda, for lunch. (Leah, Linda, Liz, D.L. . . . I think I see a pattern.) The doc is confident that a few weeks of pharmaceuticals and stretching/strengthening will make a signficant improvement. Rather than hoping he's right, I choose to take it as fact. It will get better. He said it and I believe it and that's that.

(Robert says I'm the perfect candidate for placebos. 99% of my healing truly does take place in my brain!)

I don't have time for injuries. I've got Tony and Selena stuck in a shabby motel room in Atlanta and have to get them out of there and to Alabama, plus I'm helping the kiddo plan his honeymoon. Gee, he's having a little trouble researching the options and making decisions in Afghanistan. Imagine that! I've looked at a few resorts in Bermuda and St. Croix . . . forget the kiddo and his lovely bride. **I** want to go! I'd be happy to write Selena into and out of her jams on those beautiful pink-sand Bermuda beaches!

No such trip on the horizon for me, though. Work, work, work . . . Rachel8:37 AM