Oh, hi, you guys! So, quick update, I did not complete the NaNoWriMo 50,000 word challenge, but I
got to 44,000. I'll try again in April.
Also, I came up with a reading special for you in December, more about that here!
I quite literally have one foot in 2020. Let me just say before I share all this, that I am saying it to release it, I am getting through and I will be okay at some point both physically and financially, and in less than a month, 2019 will go straight back to heck where it came from and 2020 will comfort us, like in that Facebook picture of Bill Murray offering us a shot of whiskey.
Since I got out of the hospital in June, I have been working as hard as my weakened system would allow me, to get where I need to be and to put my life back together. Then if you recall in September, I had the thyroid cancer scare. Psychics are not psychic for themselves and I was convinced that would end badly for me, but mostly because the PTSD that I had about my mother's suicide and taking care of my narcissist grandmother was buried way down deep under the PTSD that I had from struggling and nearly dying.
In October and November, I had a nice long asthma flare up. My insurance prescription plan did not cover a lot of the medication that would have been good for me, and so I was medicationless other than the rescue inhaler. My doctor came up with a way to get me a steroid inhaler, and the insurance plan I have now should cover inhalers better. But as a result of this flare-up, I had to go on prednisone. I have written before about how I tried to avoid taking it because I consider it my nemesis. Whether or not it is, my year of physical challenge was not over yet.
Because, if you read the last post and said, "it sounds like she broke her foot," you would be correct.
I broke my foot.
Settle in. Part 1:
The Beginning - My Therapy
In recent years, I have volunteered my time to animals, particularly cats. I take care of them and help them wherever I can. I am lucky enough to have a few people who have paid me to cat-sit, which is basically getting paid to hang out with cats. Even if they require medication, that is easy enough to do. The cats I took care of recently were combinations of former strays, cats who were abandoned, and cats waiting for adoption and fostering somewhere else.
Despite being broke and worn out and sick, I had developed a nightly cat-visiting routine when certain of my cat friends required evening medication and there was no one else around to give it to them. This resulted in me taking my time, connecting with the cats, and realizing that this was the best form of therapy. My aforementioned insurance doesn't cover therapy, and even if it did, I have had trouble connecting with someone that can handle both the trauma and the psychic stuff. It is my intention to do that when I can afford to, but hanging out with cats was a wonderful alternative.
There's this one cat in particular I looked forward to seeing often, named Amber. She's a rare female orange tabby, She's feral, but when she developed some upper respiratory issues, she was treated.. She has a reputation of being "mean." And she's not mean, she just prefers to be left on her own. I was caring for her every night, and at first she didn't want to have anything to do with me but I was careful to consistently talk to her in a loving voice, even though I knew she was scared and may not respond in kind..
One night I went to see Amber and her roommates, and she was making a sound like a duck. It turned out that she had asthma, but without knowing that for sure, I said, "Amber, do you have asthma? I have asthma, too," I told her, holding her paw, "It's okay. One breath at a time." I stayed with her and repeatedly told her she was okay. Eventually she let me move my hand to her back, and while she continued to wheeze, I kept my hand on her until the wheezing slowed, and then stopped, and she was okay. She was properly medicated and began to improve.
Every night I would see Amber, tell her I loved her, and she would allow me to pet her and give her chin and neck scratches.. One night while petting her, I noticed that she was making another noise. At first I got scared something else was wrong, but then I realized: she was purring. Awww! She likes me!
And now, we fast forward to last Sunday. I was on my way to leave Amber and her roommates, and I realized I had left the light on across the room. I took a step to go towards the light, and the next thing I know I was flying forward. I tried to turn myself around so I wouldn't land on my face or my bad arm (someday I'll tell you about how I slipped on the ice and tore some ligaments in my elbow, but that will have to wait) and the next thing I know I landed with a scream on my back, with my foot twisted under me.
I stayed in the silence of the room lying on my back for a few seconds.
Of course my first thought was, Okay. I'm glad no one saw that.
My second thought was, Good thing I didn't break anything. Seriously, how cute is my denial?
I tried to stand up, and I screamed again as I tried to straighten my already bruised foot. The fact that I broke it was not entering my head. Mostly because I was not allowing it to. This year has sucked so much, there is no way that my foot would be broken so I'm not even going there.
As I stood, trying to see if I could put any weight on my foot (I could - at first), my eyes met Amber's. She was looking at me. Her look was one of concern, saying, "What in the hell did you do?"
"I'm okay, my sweet girl. I'll be okay. I'll see you tomorrow, okay, Amber?"
Except I didn't realize that was the end of my cat therapy for at least a few months.
And then I left and hobbled to my car, and drove myself home, glad that it wasn't my right foot that was damaged. By the time I parked and attempted to get out of the car, I could no longer put any weight on my foot, and it was swelling up big time.
Oh, heck.
Blogging to Denial
I hopped up to my apartment, and some of you may know what happened next, I wrote a blog post equivalent to a female power ballad about how I was not going to let this year get me, or let prednisone get me, which I was crediting as my nemesis (I have since realized that 2019 is my actual nemesis, as it seems to try repeatedly to kill me). My friend came over with a cane and some bandages, and I had hoped that putting ice on my foot all night would get "the swelling" down.
But after I posted the blog, I attempted to go to bed, and sleeping was impossible because I was in pain and my foot was now beyond swollen. It was with a depressed sigh that I allowed myself to accept that my foot was not just bruised, but was probably broken, and I had to go to the Emergency Room.
I was going to drive myself, because no need to call anybody and wake them up, or call an ambulance. Except for one little thing. Actually one big thing. My foot. There was no sock, shoe, or slipper that would fit over it. And I could not walk on it at all. So even though I could drive, I could not get to my car.
Emergency! But Where's Randy Mantooth?
So at 3AM, I hopped on out to the top of the steps in my apartment building (have I mentioned I live in a building with 3,000 steps?) and called 911. I only had to wait as long as it took for them to route the call, because the ambulance literally was coming from the Fire Station across the street from me. I heard them enter the building, and I called out, "I'm up here!"
Three men in blue walked towards me. And just like Amber earlier, one of them said, "What did you do?"
I said out loud for the first time, "I broke my foot." Then I added, "I think." Because there was still a chance a miracle would happen, right?
Not so much.
One EMT on each side got me down the steps, then they put me on a stretcher, asked me the required 500 questions, one of them being if this happened at 9PM on Sunday night, why did I wait until 3AM on Monday to call 911? I mean, they said it with concern, not like they were on Law & Order: Living in Denial Unit. My reply: "Because I thought it was just bruised and not broken."
Big chuckles. Not overt laughs, but they were all definitely amused. Why couldn't it be Randy Mantooth and Kevin Tighe? They wouldn't have laughed at me.
Off they gently dumped me at the ER where I was taken right to a room. Huzzah!
They took X-Rays, told me I had fractured my foot in three places but the positive thing was that there had been no dislocation. They would give me a soft cast / half cast and crutches, and were referring me to an orthopedic specialist, and I should try to go right away.
I then waited 25 minutes for the Uber driver I couldn't afford to find the hospital entrance. But bless him, he found it eventually and helped me out of the car and up to the entrance of the building. I then scooted myself on my butt all the way up to my apartment. I tried to walk on the crutches, but it was pretty horrible. I kept falling. My upper body was not strong enough, and neither were my lungs, still in a flare up as I was.
I texted my boss to tell her that my foot was broken but I would be in, and then again later to tell her I couldn't come in because it turned out that I could not walk on the crutches. She didn't get mad at me or fire me. They are very good to me there, though it is hard not to feel that I could use a raise so that I can catch up and only work one job, but they didn't force me to accept this job after five years of self-employment, and frankly, I worry that they do not think I am dependable. Granted no one has said anything like that, and the people that matter make it apparent that they have great faith in me.
But you know. Still. I felt weird about having to call out yet again for my stupid medical issues.
Further attempts at walking on crutches caused me to fall and made me need my inhaler, so I gave up and called the number of the orthopedic surgeon to whom the hospital had referred me, asking to be seen as soon as possible.
Let's call this practice Big Ortho.
Shilling for Big Ortho
That particular doctor at Big Ortho was not available, so they squeezed me in with someone else. They actually had room for me that day, but there was no way I could get down the steps again, I was so worn out. So they said they would see me the next morning. I explained that the crutches weren't working for me and they said they would make sure I was in something better.
That helped me feel better. Of course, that turned out to be a crock. But it wasn't the fault of the person to whom I had spoken on the phone, and I acknowledge her for helping me feel better that day at least.
The next day, I got up and got dressed for work because my intention once again was to go to work after the doctor, and got myself downstairs using the sitting on the steps and scooching method. Then came the big problem.
Getting myself from the building to the car. I could not use the crutches that distance. I didn't know what I was going to do. I waited, hoping a neighbor would come out and help me, but no one did. Anybody that it occurred to me to call was too far away to come and help me to the car. So I did what any other mature person would do.
I got on my hands and knees and crawled to the car, dragging my dead foot behind me. I put the stupid, basically worthless crutches in the car next to me and called the practice, explaining that I was on my way and that I required assistance because all I had to walk with was crutches and I couldn't use them. They very kindly said someone would be there to help me.
Half an hour later, I sat parked half a block away from the entrance, still waiting for this help that someone from Big Ortho was supposed to provide me. I called again, crying and not able to catch my breath, begging for someone to come help me.
Finally, two angel nurses came out of the building, apologized for making me wait, was I okay? They were so sorry, what happened? Oh no, that looks like it's bad, don't worry, we'll take care of you and you'll be able to walk when you leave here.
They put me in a wheelchair and took me to the reception desk.
Listen, customer service is hard. But I didn't break my foot so I could come visit the doctor. And it is therefore hard for me to empathize or sympathize with the level of nastiness I received from the receptionist. She hissed at me that she had cancelled my appointment because I "didn't show up." Both of the angel nurses explained that I had shown up and was waiting for assistance that I had called several times to request. "Sorry," she said, not sorry. "We can't fit you in. No room." She apparently expected me to be carted off, but one of the nurses went to find a doctor that had time available, and he agreed to see me. She sighed and rolled her eyes, asked for my insurance info, and gave me paperwork, well, tabletwork, to fill out.
"I've gotta go deal with this," she said to one of her coworkers as she wheeled me to the very edge of the waiting room and I continued to work on my tablet. I felt like a child that had misbehaved with no idea what I had done wrong. So, I was a bit triggered.
A few minutes later, a tech came out to get me, wheeled me into a room, took off my half cast and just let my bruised and swollen foot hang out in the air, with no where to put it. I sat there for fifteen minutes before the doctor came in, greeting me, "Oh. This is going to suck."
Um... thanks?
"These X-rays are impossible to read! How does Bryn Mawr Hospital expect me to read this? God, I hate dealing with people they send. You're going to have to get new X-Rays. You'll be on crutches for a while. You can't use crutches? Then get a scooter. They're only about $200 on Amazon. You can't afford that? Oh well. No, we don't have anything to give you. We're not a store! I'll see you after your X-rays!"
With that, Dr. Sensitivity went to torture someone else, presumably. I got the X rays, was wheeled back in with my foot still hanging out uncomfortably. The doctor walked in after another 15 minutes, which was enough time for me to realize that once again I was not going to be able to make it to work and once again text my boss, apologizing, and once again wonder if my job was safe or if they would decide I am a liability and toss me.
Dr. Sensitivity happily announced that I had four fractures and a dislocation, and that I probably would need surgery, so we'll see. Get a CAT scan and we'll see. You'll have a boot. Do not walk on it. Okay Byeeeee.
And with that I was wheeled out into the hall and sat in front of a room for 20 minutes while the tech that was going to give me the boot tried to clear it with the insurance. While I was waiting, a miracle occurred. I was texting with a friend of mine, telling her my current situation with regard to needing a scooter, when she said she had one from recent use sitting in the basement and would I like to borrow it?
Yes. Yes I would. I cried with relief.
I got the boot from the tech and I asked for him to please get me assistance back to my car since I did not have the crutches and couldn't walk on them even if I did. "We're not allowed to do that." Back and forth with me asking and pointing out that two people had helped me to the building, and him refusing. He said he would take me out to the parking lot, but that was it. So once again, like a child who was in trouble and didn't understand, I sat in the wheelchair as he wheeled me outside, where I hoisted myself up and leaned on a pole, praying for ways to figure out how I would get to my car. Many people passed me as I attempted to take a few tentative steps. No one asked me if I was okay, and they walked too fast for me to call out to them. Finally, a FedEx guy came, and I said, "Excuse me? They dumped me out here and I can't walk, would you be able to help me to my car?"
"Of course!" he said, and I felt better knowing that I did not live in a world by myself. God bless FedEx.
About ten minutes later I parked the car and crawled back to the building, and up the steps. Later on my sister and brother in law and nieces came over, and brought with them the Miraculous Scooter. that they had picked up from my friend's house.
Boot Scootin' Boogie
The best part of having a boot instead of a cast is that you can take it off to take a bath or shower. Dr. Sensitivity had said if I absolutely have to, I can walk on the heel but that I should try to avoid it. When my sister arrived with the scooter, Frida (three going on 14) was asleep of course so she stayed in the car with my brother-in-law, but Luna (eight going on nine) and Maya (six going on seven) came upstairs to make sure I was okay. I hugged both of them, and Luna asked me about what the doctor said. She was worried I would need surgery.
The night before, when I was in the half-cast, I got a message from Luna that said simply, "Are you ok?" I replied, "Yes, love, I'll be okay!" A re-enactment of this exchange is shown in the beautiful picture Luna drew for me, at the very top of this here blog post. She's the greatest artist in the world.
Maya asked for a ride on the scooter, I said no. Luna asked me for a ride on the scooter, I said no. My sister made sure I had everything I needed for a few days, then they all hugged me and left.
The next day, my boss texted me and said I could work from home. I can access email from home, but that's it. Still, it was better than having to bring the scooter up and down the steps.
For my glorious return to work and my follow-up appointment to Penn Medical, see Part 2. If you don't see a link for it, that means I didn't write it yet, but it'll be here soon.
If you want to see about getting a reading, click here!
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Peace and Love!
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