Where Could My Luck Have Gone?
It’s a sad day when you console yourself that at least there is someone out there having worse luck than you.
You know the saying, “if you didn’t have bad luck, you’d have no luck at all”? I’m here to tell you it’s not a saying, it’s me, my life, or my 2021 at least. Let’s recap, for giggles, in case you missed my post “Recent Health Antics”. If you’d like to take a gander to get the full force of my current life, check it out here.
My 2021 was supposed to start with a shiny new gadget implanted on my spine and in my right “flank” — feel free to read right fat roll — taking away all my lifelong backpain, or most at least. Instead, I get such bad stability I’m the youngest person checked in for the New Year Walker Races at the local group home. OK, it wasn’t that bad, there was no group home and I opted for two canes.
Fast forward through the miracle of Medium and writing for three weeks, I am back at the surgical center. No, not to bring cookies for my wonderful nurses. Although, I should put that on the list. Nope, I am there for surgery el numero duo. This time we are doing Live Action Role Playing of Reverse Day in the flesh, literally. Yep, one month after getting my new shiny gadget, they take it away like I’d stayed out passed curfew. FYI — unless curfew is 7:00 and the cane police were derelict of duty, that wasn’t it.
The only good part here is I asked my surgeon for better meds and being an awesome guy who took pity on an old woman, he relented. So, yes, I was facing two weeks again on my side mostly in bed, but this time thanks to Dr. K, God of Neurosurgery, I was flying high on the drug filled skies of Percocet.
But wait, there’s more….
The week after my second surgery, while enjoying the in-flight entertainment, I was not feeling great. My husband, application for sainthood already completed, got me Firehouse Subs. Now, everyone who’s anyone knows that you only get the subs so you can get their cookies! I was a good girl and ate all of my sub, Hook & Ladder on white — and lie back for the main event. I took a bite of that wonderfully soft, tasty chocolate chip cookie and CRACK. One of my damn crowns popped off.
Well crap…now I’m staring at my crazy yummy cookie with only one bite missing in one hand and my damn tooth in the other. Seriously? No, I mean like really, are you friggin kidding me? Thanks to the wonderful service here on United Percocet Air, I managed to keep my, well, everything in check. I handed hubby the tooth and asked for a baggie and wrapped my cookie up. Later, my dear, later. I call in the morning, another blessed medical professional takes pity on me and gets me in that day to fix it.
One would think, come on, happy ending. You got your cookie in the end. Yes, yes I did, and I enjoyed the living hoo-hah out of that cookie, but no, my story doesn’t end here. No, no, no, days of torture, I mean recovery, I mean celestial vengeance, to come.
Let’s fast forward again though, through the beauty of Medium, blah blah blah, to the end of the month. You don’t need to hear about the phone calls with pain specialist office “professionals” who barely knew which end of the phone to talk into. We don’t want to go down that road because Flight 122 of US Percocet Air had landed, and it wasn’t pretty. Nope, we move to the end of the month instead.
We are at a date of infamy — February 24th — my surgical follow up and the twen&^%* birthday of my youngest. Follow up went well, and I was released to work March 1st, the following Monday, after they pilfered me of $25.00 to do the disability paperwork. I didn’t care; it was over. We were at the very least back to our original, albeit painful and now somewhat hopeless, normal. For those not calendar proficient, this was a Wednesday, important detail here.
First, we need to side bar to the day before this. I began my quest to “get into a normal rhythm” which evidently my doctors insist should include exercise. I know, as if I hadn’t been through enough, but I was putting in my A+ effort here. So, I searched for “softer, fibromyalgia friendly yoga”, since weather had the bike sipping lattes in the garage. I did 20 minutes of “gentle yoga stretching” for people with fibromyalgia. This is important, remember, Tuesday — body twisting, woo woo.
I spent Thursday and Friday getting my work PC set back up for Monday. We had enlarged my bookcase, so before Surgery Numero Uno, everything was disconnected. On Friday, I noticed the outside of my left foot has a sharp pain, mainly when I walked. Since pain and I are unwilling besties and I had just done yoga, I really didn’t think much about it. The next morning, Saturday, the pain had spread across my ankle, which had also swollen. Friggin Yoga. Next person to tell me to try yoga, as my Navy friend puts it, will get throat punched.
I ice it and arrange for some virtual bingeing of The Magicians with a true bestie Kimberly. Halfway through the day the pain spreads again, to the top of my foot. I carefully examine my foot with my completely uneducated and untrained diagnosing technique: I start poking at it. I should be precise here. I noticed the main vein across the top of my foot was massively puffy. Not IV ready puffy, but a nice thick piece of yarn, puffy. What do I do? I poke it. I yell several colorful words that has Kimberly asking, “What the hell did you do?” I’m a troubleshooter by nature, and I notice my whole foot is not swelling. So, I poke some more, but I’m also not stupid, I avoid the puffy yarn vein. I find that nowhere else on the top of my foot is there any pain, and I really poked!
Well crap…I have a damn blood clot.
This is the part where I go through the back and forth of my family and friends wanting me to go to Urgent Care. I was worried an urgent care would go full throttle and cut my damn leg off! No, I had an appointment with my PCP for Wednesday, and it would keep. Unfortunately, on Sunday the swelling and pain moved about halfway up my calf. Monday, my first day back at work for 2 ½ months, I’m up bright and early ready to hit the ground running. That’s a total lie, and not even a good one; my foot slipped while I was sleeping and smacked into my bad one jolting me awake much like a pot of ice water poured on me would. My leg hurt now too much to go back to sleep. I couldn’t take anything because (a) first day back starts in a few hours and (b) if I get into the doctor, I don’t want the pain masked.
I try to get up to go to the bathroom and nearly fall. I can’t put any weight on that foot, son of an illegitimate donkey’s ass. Saint Hubby helps me out to my chair, and I send an email off to my doctor so it’s waiting for her when she gets there. Not long after 8am, I get a call from my doctor, she can see me at 4 or I can go to urgent care. Not wanting limbs cut off mistakenly, I opt to wait for 4:00. My doctor doesn’t think it’s a blood clot but decides to send me off to visit with a young lady who enjoys inflicting pain on poor unsuspecting old people. Actually she was a radiologist doing a venous ultrasound.
For the record, venous ultrasounds hurt like you would not believe! In the end, she finds a blood clot in my tibia vein. While she’s on the speakerphone with my doctor, after she tells her about the DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis), I of course yell, “Told you so!”. She tells the radiologist to let me know I’m back on the blood thinners and she’ll be calling me. When she calls, I promptly confess, “I really hate being right all the time.” To which she confesses, “Me too.” It was quite the moment of bonding.
She does mention that at least this time it’s not in my lung, so no hospital stay. I’m quiet. “Shelly, you aren’t having any chest pains, are you?” “Well, I may have had some this afternoon.” I could literally hear the eyeroll with the exasperated sigh “Oh my god, Shelly. You’re going to the ER now.” I tried negotiating, but failed, so Saint Husband Uber and I were off to an ER. Luckily — that is so funny to say here — luckily, there was a little used ER just down the road, so we headed there. I was taken right in and as the nurse was wheeling me into the room, I explained what was going on. She says, and I am not making this up, ”Our CT is down so we can’t scan you. Do you want to get checked in and see the doctor anyway?” Did I say the L-word? I said, ”Um, no, we’ll head to another one, thanks!” Saint Uber did get another detour, and two hours later we found out the scan is clear and I’m good to go home.
My problem here is, besides the clump of blood blocking proper flow out of my foot causing enough pain that I can’t put any weight on it, I can’t take my anti-inflammatories. Bottom line, pain, tons of pain, everywhere. I’d been through this before, but the pain is a whole lot worse this time, and I’m trying to stay awake all day and I’m trying to stay focused, but all I can think about is my pain. By the following Monday, my boss is suggesting I return to disability until I can get the pain under control. I couldn’t disagree, but my problem is, can I get this pain under control while taking these stupid blood thinners? And yes, I know without them I risk a lethal PE or stroke, blah blah blah. Have I mentioned complete pain everywhere all the time? Percocet Air helps, but I also tend to sleep on those flights, so they aren’t good working trips.
Here I am, half Irish and I’ve completely misplaced my Irish luck. Two weeks down and at least ten more to go. Oh, and I get my COVID vaccine which I’m preparing for every bad side effect to occur. Unless of course my luck changes.
