RSD

At great risk to myself and the poor SOB who offered to transport my disease-riddled carcass along Illinois highways, I’ve seen the nerve specialist, and am now the proud owner of something called a Type 1 RSD.

According to the doctor–a wizened Chinese man, likely a sage of unknowable renown–this effectively means that my ankle injury confused a nerve in my leg. My brain, like a sugar-infused five-year-old overreacted and went on a killing-spree. Effectively it thinks I’ve catastrophically savaged my foot, and the only way to save the rest of my body is to remove my leg at the knee. The signal from the nerve is so intense, that my brain has reacted by reducing blood flow to my leg in an attempt to starve it. Of course, the human body is incapable of carrying out this cunning plan, so instead of a clean amputation, my leg has simply transformed into a nexus of discomfort.