Just in case you were sitting on the edge of your seats (I can hear that creaking,) or heard bits and pieces of the story (the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.)
I've always wanted to ride to the ER in an ambulance.
Let's overlook the glaring obvious (ambulance ride = bad sign) and just be honest, doesn't it look like fun? The flashing lights, the sirens, getting where you need to go in record time. And it makes a better start to any story than sitting in the urgent care waiting room bundled in sweatpants, slightly delirious, and shaking with fever like a Chihuahua.Which, indecently, is what I was doing two days after my previous post.
The doctor declared my incision site "beautiful" (the first of many to do so that day) and gawked at my medical chart.
"Your PT is 4.2!" (Normal is around 1.5)
Shake, shudder "Yes."
"You don't have any clotting factor."
"No." Pathetic whimper.
And then he scurried out of the door as fast as someone can who doesn't want his patient to worry. If I'd been more coherent, I might have worried. As it was, I was too busy trying to figure out how to recline the exam bed so I could go to sleep.
"So I called my colleagues at St. Jo's, and I want you to go straight to their ER."
"Zzzzzarhgd...whaa?"
He looked me up and down a few times. I probably didn't look like the kind of person who could be trusted to find their way out of an empty paper sack, let alone through the city to a hospital.
"Do you have someone to drive you?"
I wasn't much better by the time we reached the ER. Somehow I think the nurses are used to that.
"So how long has your leg been hurting?"
"Um, days? Since Thurs... no, Monday... um, what day is today?"
"What medications are you on?"
"Keflex? No, that's not right. It's an antibiotic. And it's a cycline. And it starts with a C. Oh wait, doxycycline."
"Are you sure?"
"Perhaps."
At one point I think there were three doctors and nurses in there, starting an IV, taking blood, and trying to drag a patient history out of a delirious patient. Eventually they shot me full of Dilaudid, which is very happy stuff, and wheeled me upstairs to the ultrasound technician. She was very friendly and very chatty, to a point.
"So here's your femoral vein. It looks great. I'm going to push on your knee and check your popliteal veins. Those are good. Hear that rushing sound? That's excellent. Now I'm going to move into your calf. Does it hurt if I press here? Oh, sorry, I guess that's painful. Could you get back on to the bed for me? Let's try that one more time."
Awkward silence.
"So how does it look?"
"Okay."
"You keep going over the same place."
"Just trying to get a clear picture."
The less any medical professional talks, the more you should be concerned.
I owe my doctor cookies for not diagnosing me as a blood clot. Instead I bled out into my leg right near the incision site. I guess that clotting factor's important. Who knew? I wound up spending the night getting IV antibiotics in the observation ward. Because I wasn't drunk or a psych patient they even generously let me have a room with a real door!
So, thanks all of you who expressed deep concern about my imminent demise, but I am back on both feet, and hematoma free. Which is particularly good, because I have some cookies to bake.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Friday, October 12, 2012
In Which Poor Decisions are Made
Welcome back readers, gentle and otherwise.
Unfortunately, I don't yet have any tales from the front of the class to share with you. The Denver and Boulder MCAT sessions should start next week, and with them plenty of questions I can't answer. Until then, I figured we may as well catch up.
I have spent the last two weeks on bed rest recovering from a minor surgical procedure (gastroc slide, for all you med types.) This is not my first procedure, so I knew exactly what to expect: the percocet, the doing nothing all day, the tripping over your crutches and falling on your face. After two days of those horrible crutches I forsook all dignity and honor, gave up, and spent the rest of the two weeks crawling through the house. You do what you have to do, and no one ever fell on their face when they were on their hands and knees.
As far as doing nothing goes, I gave iTunes U a run for their money. It started fairly simply: a music course here, a few lectures on Shakespeare there, one class on Ancient Rome, one on Ancient Greece. It got out of hand very quickly. C.S. Lewis and Geography and French and Ancient Israel and Biochemistry and Art History, and Neuro! I probably could have obtained a second degree, albeit a rather eclectic one, with all those classes.
I didn't know it was that easy to fill a hard drive.
So I spent two weeks crocheting, listening to someone in Australia talk about Romulus, and convincing the dog to let me have part of the bed. No horrible complications, no midnight visits to the ER like last time. The PA who took out my stitches said my leg looked great, go home and start walking on it! So I did.
I don't like that walking boot. Put a 3 inch heel on your left foot. Leave your right foot bare. Come back in an hour and tell me if your hips and back hurt. I thought so.
It was so bad that after the first day I chucked the boot with gusto, tied on my sturdiest shoes, and went outside. It was glorious. The weather was beautiful, I played with the dog and the horse, took care of the chickens, cleaned my birds' cages, and watched the leaves fall. That evening I ran outside to see flocks and flocks of sandhill cranes go trumpeting over the house. It was wonderful, it was liberating, I was just as free as them! /inspirationalbackgroundmusic
The next morning I bounced out of bed, ready to do it all over.
Dear sweet holy everloving mother of...!
I'm told that doctors and nurses make the worst patients. If so, I am well on my way to becoming one. I could barely stand, let alone walk. Who'd have thought that stupid boot served any purpose? So here we are again, back to square one. I've spent the past two days with my foot in the air (and the boot on, thankyouverymuch,) and nothing but iTunes U for company. I think it's getting better, but I'm a little nervous that it won't be all the way there before class starts.
Until then, I have learned my lesson, and will not be leaving my bed without that stupid boot, even though it feels like my foot is encased in concrete, and reminds me of Jimmy Hoffa.
Unfortunately, I don't yet have any tales from the front of the class to share with you. The Denver and Boulder MCAT sessions should start next week, and with them plenty of questions I can't answer. Until then, I figured we may as well catch up.
I have spent the last two weeks on bed rest recovering from a minor surgical procedure (gastroc slide, for all you med types.) This is not my first procedure, so I knew exactly what to expect: the percocet, the doing nothing all day, the tripping over your crutches and falling on your face. After two days of those horrible crutches I forsook all dignity and honor, gave up, and spent the rest of the two weeks crawling through the house. You do what you have to do, and no one ever fell on their face when they were on their hands and knees.
As far as doing nothing goes, I gave iTunes U a run for their money. It started fairly simply: a music course here, a few lectures on Shakespeare there, one class on Ancient Rome, one on Ancient Greece. It got out of hand very quickly. C.S. Lewis and Geography and French and Ancient Israel and Biochemistry and Art History, and Neuro! I probably could have obtained a second degree, albeit a rather eclectic one, with all those classes.
I didn't know it was that easy to fill a hard drive.
So I spent two weeks crocheting, listening to someone in Australia talk about Romulus, and convincing the dog to let me have part of the bed. No horrible complications, no midnight visits to the ER like last time. The PA who took out my stitches said my leg looked great, go home and start walking on it! So I did.
I don't like that walking boot. Put a 3 inch heel on your left foot. Leave your right foot bare. Come back in an hour and tell me if your hips and back hurt. I thought so.
It was so bad that after the first day I chucked the boot with gusto, tied on my sturdiest shoes, and went outside. It was glorious. The weather was beautiful, I played with the dog and the horse, took care of the chickens, cleaned my birds' cages, and watched the leaves fall. That evening I ran outside to see flocks and flocks of sandhill cranes go trumpeting over the house. It was wonderful, it was liberating, I was just as free as them! /inspirationalbackgroundmusic
The next morning I bounced out of bed, ready to do it all over.
Dear sweet holy everloving mother of...!
I'm told that doctors and nurses make the worst patients. If so, I am well on my way to becoming one. I could barely stand, let alone walk. Who'd have thought that stupid boot served any purpose? So here we are again, back to square one. I've spent the past two days with my foot in the air (and the boot on, thankyouverymuch,) and nothing but iTunes U for company. I think it's getting better, but I'm a little nervous that it won't be all the way there before class starts.
Until then, I have learned my lesson, and will not be leaving my bed without that stupid boot, even though it feels like my foot is encased in concrete, and reminds me of Jimmy Hoffa.
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