Mr. L. Behind My Back with the Scap
Four years of pointing to the same place, two new MRIs, and one increasingly unhinged medical investigation.
Four years of pointing to the same place, two new MRIs, and somehow the one region I keep identifying still hasn’t been fully investigated. The imaging gave me information. The records gave me receipts. My lived experience gave me a theory. Medically? Unproven. Comedically? Mr. L is guilty as f***!
Written September 3, 2026.
Yesterday I had two MRIs.
One of my cervical spine.
One of my right shoulder.
Which is exciting, except for one minor detail:
I have spent years pointing to the area around my right scapula and saying some version of:
It starts here.
Not my shoulder joint.
Not primarily my neck.
Here.
Then I point behind me like that is somehow useful.
The pain travels. It goes into my neck, shoulder, ribs, arm. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes things go numb. Sometimes everything feels like it has been pulled into a vice.
I have tried explaining it differently.
I have pointed.
Described.
Re-described.
I once made a fucking diagram, printed it, and brought it to doctors because apparently words were no longer getting the job done.
And yet, somehow, the primary region I keep pointing to has remained remarkably talented at avoiding comprehensive investigation.
Yesterday did not solve that.
It did, however, make me significantly more annoyed.
THE NECK HAS PRIORS
My cervical MRI came back without some dramatic new finding that neatly explains what has been happening.
There are mild degenerative findings. They've been there.
In fact, once I started pulling my older imaging, I found versions of them going back years.
That matters to me because my symptoms have changed substantially.
The neck imaging really hasn't.
Does that mean my cervical spine contributes absolutely nothing?
No.
I am not a doctor.
I am, however, the person who has been living inside this body while repeatedly saying:
That's not the fucking issue.
So when the cervical MRI came back largely stable, my reaction was approximately:
Yeah.
Knew that.
Next suspect.
THEN WE QUESTIONED THE SHOULDER
The shoulder MRI was also interesting.
No major rotator-cuff tear.
No catastrophic shoulder-joint destruction.
There were several smaller findings, including some minimal fraying, inflammation-type changes and edema involving the teres minor that the radiologist said can be seen with strain and/or early neuropathic change.
Interesting.
Not nothing.
Also not an explanation I am prepared to stretch into something it doesn't prove.
Because once again:
My shoulder has never felt like where this starts.
It feels like somewhere the problem goes.
And that's different.
I am not asking medicine to agree with me. I am asking medicine to investigate the place I keep fucking pointing to.
ENTER MR. L
At some point yesterday, the Investigation Department became completely unsupervised.
This is how levator scapulae became:
Mr. L.
Mr. L is one of the muscles involved in moving and stabilizing the scapula.
He is also currently my primary suspect.
To be extremely clear before someone awards me a medical license:
I have not diagnosed myself with a levator scapulae injury.
I have a working theory.
And until someone produces better evidence, I reserve the right to remain obnoxiously convinced I am correct.
There is history behind that theory.
After the original injury period, I had muscle microtears identified by diagnostic ultrasound after prior MRIs hadn't identified them. By my recollection, the levator was among them, and those injuries were treated with PRP.
Then, months before yesterday's investigation, I had already told Rob that the pain felt familiar enough that I wondered whether I had reinjured the levator.
So no.
I did not Google an anatomy picture and decide I had cracked the case.
I have been standing in the police station screaming about the same neighborhood for years.
Yesterday I simply became more committed to questioning the residents.
AND THEN I FOUND THE RECEIPTS
This may have been the part that made me the angriest.
Not because I discovered some new pattern.
I already knew the pattern.
I made the paper trail.
January 2023: right scapular, posterior upper-back, rib, neck and shoulder pain documented.
February 2023: right scapular pain listed in the indication for my shoulder MRI.
And that MRI?
It literally says:
“The scapula is only partially imaged on most sequences.”
Oh.
Excellent.
Glad we cleared that up.
Later records document extreme tenderness in the levator scapulae region.
Then palpable crepitus when I move the scapula.
More recently: scapulothoracic bursitis and scapular dyskinesis.
Meanwhile, I have continued saying:
LOOK BACK HERE.
My scapula didn't always snap, crackle and pop like a possessed breakfast cereal.
That developed later as the entire situation got worse.
Which raises questions.
It does not answer them.
And that's the distinction I need people to understand.
I didn't discover the paper trail yesterday. I created it by reporting the same problem over and over again.
CLUE: hEDS EDITION
By this point, there was only one reasonable way to continue a serious medical investigation.
Obviously, we played Clue.
Victim:
Right Scapula.
Crime:
Approximately four years of increasingly demonic bullshit.
Primary suspect:
Mr. L — Levator Scapulae.
Weapon:
Jet Ski rope.
Location:
Behind my fucking back.
The cervical spine was brought in for questioning but has degenerative priors dating back before the original injury and currently lacks evidence establishing it as mastermind of the present crime.
Teres Minor was recently found at the scene with suspicious edema.
Role unknown.
The bursae appear irritated and are cooperating with investigators.
Peripheral nerves remain persons of interest.
Insurance denied the current thoracic MRI and has therefore been charged with obstruction.
And because my right scapula appears to wing differently from my left, we must also acknowledge:
Half-Angel Theory remains technically unfalsified.
Eventually I announced my conclusion:
Mr. L. Behind my back. With the scap.
Medically?
Unproven.
Comedically?
That man is guilty!
BUT HERE'S WHAT I'M ACTUALLY ASKING
Take away Mr. L.
Take away Clue.
Take away the Jet Ski rope and my increasingly hostile relationship with every anatomical structure located behind my right shoulder.
The actual question is simple:
Why does my right scapula behave differently from my left?
Is it muscular?
Neurologic?
Mechanical?
Bursal?
Some combination?
Something I haven't thought of?
Fine.
That's what I want someone qualified to determine.
I am willing to be wrong.
In fact, after years of hearing explanations that don't adequately account for what I'm experiencing, I would be delighted by genuinely new information.
Prove me wrong.
Acquit Mr. L.
I'll apologize to the man personally.
Then tell me who did it.
I remain right until proven otherwise. Not because I need my theory to win. Because after years of saying “that's not it,” I would genuinely love for someone to bring me an answer I haven't already ruled down.
MEANWHILE, I STILL HAD A DAY TO LIVE
This entire investigation occurred while I was still in significant pain and adjusting to pregabalin.
The burning got worse after the MRI, so I took another dose.
Later, the pain was still around a nine.
My brain became somewhat more available.
Not entirely.
Apparently we're currently operating on a timeshare agreement between pain and medication.
I wanted to go into my office and work.
My body responded as though the office had been declared a federal biohazard site.
So naturally, instead of working, I attempted a nap.
Failed.
Destroyed the bed by rolling around.
Remade it.
Showered for far too long.
Did my hair.
Pain-ed around.
Cleaned the bathroom counters.
Sat on the couch.
Eventually I made it to the kitchen to cook dinner.
The meat had spoiled.
So had the lettuce.
The only actual biohazard in the house turned out to be dinner.
We ordered subs.
Of course we did.
BUT I DID GO TO WORK
Just not in my office.
The night before, after weeks away, I had finally gone live again.
I had promised I would come back.
I didn't promise when.
I didn't promise for how long.
I just said I'd come back when I could.
Yesterday, I did.
Again.
At 9:13 p.m., I went live for the second night in a row.
And this time I stayed for an hour and twelve minutes.
A little longer than the night before.
Not because an hour and twelve minutes is some magical benchmark.
Because I was able.
That's the goal now.
Not:
Show up at this exact time and perform for this exact duration regardless of what my body is doing.
Instead:
When I have a window, use it.
Maybe tomorrow I stay longer.
Maybe tomorrow I can't.
Yesterday's accomplishment does not automatically become today's minimum requirement.
I'm trying very hard to remember that.
ROSE, JACK AND MY MUSCLES
Someone in the live asked what was wrong with me.
And because apparently I am physically incapable of explaining complicated things without turning them into cinema, I somehow arrived at Titanic.
Picture the final scene.
Rose is holding Jack.
“I'll never let go.”
Except:
Rose is my muscles.
Jack is everything unstable they're desperately trying to hold together.
My muscles:
I'LL NEVER LET GO, JACK.
My joints:
Please do.
My muscles:
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT.
Is this peer-reviewed medicine?
No.
Did everyone immediately understand what I meant?
Pretty much.
That's why I do it.
Sometimes the things happening inside my body are obscure.
Invisible.
Complicated.
Hard to explain.
So I make them visible.
I turn them into something someone else can picture long enough to understand the shape of what I'm trying to say.
I use imagery to make the obscure understood, felt and seen.
Apparently yesterday that required Titanic, a murder mystery, a suspected rogue levator scapulae and an actual spoiled dinner.
Fine.
Whatever works.
THE CASE REMAINS OPEN
Yesterday didn't give me the answer.
That's important.
The MRIs gave me information.
The historical records gave me receipts.
My lived experience gives me a theory.
Those are not the same thing.
Maybe Mr. L did it.
Maybe he had accomplices.
Maybe the entire Scapular Stabilization Department has been dysfunctional for years.
Maybe the evidence eventually points somewhere else entirely.
Fine.
Bring me the evidence.
Because I have been pointing to the same place since this started.
I have said it.
Rephrased it.
Pointed at it.
Drawn it.
Printed the fucking diagram.
I am not asking anyone to believe me because I am loud, stubborn or particularly committed to prosecuting an innocent muscle.
I am asking someone to investigate the region I've been identifying all along.
So until further notice:
Mr. L remains a person of interest.
The right scapula remains the victim.
Insurance remains deeply suspicious.
And I remain exactly where I have been for years:
Pointing behind my fucking back.
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