Cast #3 – Now in a Slimming Ebony!

The Broken Foot saga continues… (warning – this post is both epic and boring. Please skip.)

So, now we’re on cast #3. Whoo-hoo. This was necessary because apparently my leg and foot were still swollen when they applied the last cast, and since they… unswelled? …the cast got too big and was my foot was sliding around like mad inside it. This, combined with my walking too much this weekend, led to the inside of the cast rubbing the back of my heel raw.

It’s all happy fun times, right? Just some painful, awkward, happy fun times.

So anyway I had the day off and got up at 6:00 am anyway so I could be calling the doctor’s office at 8:00 – all “help me!” So I left here at 8:10 and when I left it was sunny and happy and fine out. About 20 minutes into the drive I hit — a blizzard. No shit, a blizzard. Some of the worst driving conditions I have ever experienced, as far as visibility goes. Luckily the roads were fine, but I was driving in it for 5 minutes like “damn I can see NOTHING!” before I realized I needed to take off my sunglasses, and that turning on my headlights was probably advisable too. Anyway, by the time I got to the doctor’s office it was over with, and all sunny again. Thank you global warming.

Oh – and a big FUCK YOU to the asshats who determined that they were the only crippled people trying to get into the doctor’s office, and parked their car smack in front of the entrance so that I had to struggle up the curb and through the mulch to get into the bldg. Fuck you very much, West County shitwits.

Anyway, this cast-applicator guy was SO much better than the other one. They took the cast off and totally washed my leg and stuff and then he had me stretch my muscles out and tested my muscle tone. (Apparently good – thanks to hell-stairs) They redid my cast and since I apparently have sensitive skin they gave me the same kind of cast they give diabetics, even though I am not diabetic. It’s got extra padding on the ankle and heel, and reinforcements in the front and back of my calf. It’s tighter, so I have to be more careful to elevate it as much as possible. Oh, and it doesn’t smell. Though they told me that I was just going to have to live with some smell, it’s part of having a cast. But I maintain that the smell from that other one was from that cranky guy wrapping my foot when it was still wet last time.

So then this guy went to apply the wrapping to my foot and he started pressing on it, pressing it into the proper position. Holy motherfuck, that hurt. Reminder of why I need the cast in the first place – apparently foot actually broken. But holy shit, that was really not pleasant. I wanted to tell him that usually people have to take me to dinner before I allow them to inflict that kind of pain on me – but I restrained myself. Then I came home and slept long and hard. Being in pain like that knocks my ass out. Oh, and I’ve figured out that the Tramadol that they gave me at the hospital isn’t as knock-outy as the hydrocodone, and also not as habit-forming, so I asked my doctor to give me that instead. (/me is tired of being zoned-out.)

Things are getting easier. Getting up stairs I pretty much have down to a clumsy-looking science, though going down is still pretty scary. I am getting used to this, and I can work with it.

Dammit.

I can.

Back to work tomorrow – even more happy fun times!

Register Wars

After a brief cessation of hostilities (due to my closing the vent off and leaving it closed accidentally) we’ve had another flare-up in the 07-08 Register Wars. Curiously, Chelsea is winning at the moment. Jake outweighs her, but she out-growls him.

In other news, I’ve mostly recovered from my parent’s visit to “help me out” yesterday – which exhausted, befuddled and exasperated me. Highlights include my dad turning my water heater down (which I only figured out when I had to take a very NOT hot shower this morning) and then putting some nail-studded pieces of wood through the basement staircase – sticking out precariously where I need to walk. Now, I hate that staircase anyway (I have always been paranoid that I would fall down it and no one would miss me for 6 months and I would be all covered in cobwebs by then) because it’s rickety, open-backed, ends in a hard concrete floor at the bottom and oh yeah, I HAVE A BROKEN FUCKING FOOT. So impediments to my navigating the staircase (such as nail-studded pieces of wood) are a FINE idea. Quote from him: “Your foot will never even come near there”. Yeah, but my face might. What part about my having a propensity for falling down stairs does he not understand? Fuckit. Turn the water heater off while you’re at it – who needs hot water?

Got my errands run with MyTodd™ this afternoon and we met another friend for dinner, which was fun. But it’s so stupid how much I have to plan everything in advance. Like, making sure that our friend didn’t get there ahead of us and get a table in the basement, since my gimp ass couldn’t walk down there. Anyway, I have the day off tomorrow and it’s a good thing, because I have to go and have another cast put on. This one is rubbing my heel raw in the back, I can totally feel it. Plus, it smells funny. I have no idea if it’s my foot that’s smelly (though it doesn’t smell like stinky shoe smell, it’s just… weird smelling) or just the material the thing is made of, but I seriously can’t take it anymore. I have enough going on in my life that I don’t need to worry about smelling funny. I am already feeling like a big old dorky needy awkward klutz-chick, all it takes is thinking I smell funny to tip me totally into “don’t fucking touch me, and also don’t look at me” land.

I really think that impatient asshole cast-applicator guy didn’t let my foot dry enough last time, and that’s what’s making it all effed up now. But I don’t care if I have to go in there once week for a new cast from now until fucking July – I am not walking around with a smelly fucking leg, FFS. I mean, they can’t have invented an anti-microbial cast lining fabric by now? Ugh.

Now, back to my glamorous and exciting life (AKA going to change the laundry over and turn my water heater back up.) If you never hear from me again I am dead on the floor of my basement with a nail-studded board embedded in my forehead. Thanks Dad.

Wintry Mix Hits Area

STLtoday – News – St. Louis City / County

By noon, the wintry weather had prompted Mo. Gov. Matt Blunt to cancel his press conferences for today. Blunt was going to talk about his biodiesel mandate and his efforts to stop cattle rustling. He also cancelled his speech in Kennett, Mo., where he was to talk about economic development.

Several interesting things here.

First, wintry mix – you know I love that phrase.

Secondly – fuck. Apart from not wanting to gimp around on this cast in the ice and snow and sleet, I don’t want to be sent home! I want to stay at work where the people are. I don’t want to be at home alone staring at the walls, thanks very much. If we have a day off tomorrow I swear to Christ I am taking the dogs and moving in with Todd whether he wants me or not. Susan no want 2B alone by herself anymore, plz. OKThx. Shit, just realized that Todd has many steps up to his apartment, and no railing. That fucker.

Lastly – our governor had to cancel his press conference on cattle rustling? Srsly?

Edit: 3:43 p.m. – And of course we get sent home early. Which is OK, because my foot and my hip are killing me, but seriously. I am going to take in a lodger. For reals.

Math and Calendars

OK, so the reality of “8-12 weeks in a cast” is starting to sink in. Figuring from the day the cast was put on (Feb 5) this means that even a “normal” 6-week period would have me encased like this until March 18th.

8 weeks would be April 1st.

12 weeks would be April 29th! APRIL 29th! That’s way into spring! What about my GARDEN? What about being OUTSIDE when it gets nice? What about trying to go on job interviews with a freakish cast on my leg? What about trying to start a new job all gimped up like this? What about… what about anything? Holy FUCK. I find myself wanting to do some quick clone-stamp Photoshop work on this puppy. Or drink a gallon of milk every minute, or something. This shit needs to heal! I can’t live this way for that long! For one thing, my fucking gimpy right hip is going to be a fucking socket full of ground glass shards and broken needle tips by then, I get the feeling. It’s already talking to me like “Bitch, you know I am doing the work of two hips right here? These stairs are getting tiresome!”

Fuckity, fuckity, fuck.

Also, for anyone who’s ever had a broken bone – especially a leg or foot – what kind of state is my left ankle likely to be in once I get the cast off, if it’s been immobilized that long? Won’t it be all weak and useless?

superBoredGirl

They need to invent a new word for the way I feel. Aggraborelonelustrated, maybe.

Awww Yeah Baby!

Don’t you wish your GIANT RETARDED SMURF LEG was hot like mine?

Seriously, doncha?

OK, OK the important thing is that it kept my cast dry, I know. Also, that’s NOT a proportional representation of the size/stumpiness of my actual leg. My actual leg is short and stumpy, yeah, but there’s a whole cast under there and stuff.

I am Red Fraggle

So I had to go get a new cast today. Yes, Susan’s Wet-n-Soapy Showertime Adventures, rather than leading to a lucrative 5-film Skinemax contract, led to a trip back out to the doctor’s office to have the old cast sawn off and a new one put on. And yes, my foot looked like something the Crypt Keeper would forcefully order from his presence, while hollering ‘EW! Gross! Get it Away!’

Anyway, cast was reapplied by the same sense-of-humor-amputee guy who did the first one. Holy crap, guy cannot be made to laugh. If he hadn’t been so dour the first time I would have assumed he was cheesed off at me ruining his masterwork, but he was just like that the first time, too. Guy gets to sugar-string people’s limbs all day, what’s not fun in that? Geez. And I am so starved for human contact that I was chatting up, like, everyone in that office. I learned all about the one lady’s dogs, which was fun, we swapped pictures and Stories of Intense Cuteness. Then I got to spend $37 on a latex DryPro cast cover which is so ridiculous looking that it needs its own special category of RetardWear™ or something. Putting it on and taking it off is going to extend each of my showers from 30 to about 96 minutes, but driving out to Chesterfield for a new cast every day is at least 2 hours, so I guess I will live with it.

Side note: I have just discovered the answer to the multi-week riddle “Why is it so fecking cold in this office?” which apparently had much to do with my closing the vent in here a few weeks back to stop the dog’s squabbling over who got to sit on it and then forgetting I had done so. Commence toe-toasting.

Anyway, this whole episode has led me to examine closely (yet again with the introspection) my own attitudes about self-reliance and independence. Namely that I am proudly, stubbornly independent as well as self-reliant to the point of absurdity – which gets me into trouble more often than I will admit. (if you don’t get the Red Fraggle reference then you should have watched more Fraggle Rock, growing up) Generally I find that the less reliant I am on other people, the simpler and easier my life is. That’s because I am pretty fucking competent, usually, and my INTJness means that if I’ve thought about something for very long I have figured out the most efficient way to do it, and watching or participating in any other way of doing it will drive me totally, completely, batshit crazy-insane.

That drive toward self-sufficiency has perks. For instance I have a large and ever-expanding skill set, because I’d rather learn to do it myself than ask for help. That’s why I am how I am with computers, and why I learned Dutch, and why I can fix toilets and a million other things. The down side is that by always doing things on my own I reject chances to create and strengthen bonds with other people, and learn from their knowledge and experience. I also have no support network when it turns out that I really do need help, and I am terrible at recognizing the need for (and then accepting) that necessary help.

This isn’t news to me – finding ways to increase my ability to forge meaningful interpersonal relationships has been my Human Homework for almost a year now. I give myself a B-minus so far, for the record.

What’s interesting (to me, if to no one else – which, I presume you’ve all stopped reading my now?) is WHY exactly I have the attitudes I have about self-reliance. Nature or nurture? (hint: it’s 89.67% nurture). So when something like this happens, it’s educational to sit back and see some of the family stuff that occurs through my new adult eyes.

For instance the previously-mentioned inability of my parental units to not turn everything into a Huge Freaking Deal. When changing a lightbulb becomes a multi-day event with pursuant emotional arousal, needing my managing it to make it all better, then that’s something that’s been made into a Huge Freaking Deal for no reason. So obviously (not being a fan of HFDs) I would rather try almost anything on my own rather than asking for help and having it become a HFD. Like the 90-minute trip to the doctor’s office on Tuesday that became a torturous 5-hour odyssey due to my Dad having to drive me.

“I don’t see how they’re going to call this South Outer Forty Drive. Where do you think that road over there goes? Will you have a LOOK at this guy cutting in over here? Sure buddy – just cut on in. That guy. Oh! Here’s another one. Sure, just cut on in here. The rest of us have been waiting for an hour – just you go ahead and cut in here. Asshole. <insert racist tirade and various conspiracy theories related to same> We are just sitting here burning gas in this traffic. You know, I read on the Internet that the price of gas is going to be $4 a gallon this summer. And with the way the market’s going we’re going to be broke by then anyway. Did you see the Dow Jones this morning? Yeah, well that’s the Democrats for you. How in the HELL is this supposed to be South Outer Forty Drive? Where do you think that road there goes? Will you get a look at THIS guy?”

This morning when I needed to go back? I skipped my “don’t drive on these” pain meds and dragged my own crippled ass out there. Are you kidding me?

I think the phrase that most often comes out of my mouth when I talk to my family is “Just… just, nevermind.” My Mom, while she was here, would ask me what I wanted for lunch and I would just say “Nothing” rather than deal with the HFD it was going to become. For example:

“No you can’t have granola cereal. What kind of lunch is that? You can have soup. <later> Here’s your soup. It was too hot, so I added some water, and then it was too cold so I reheated it, and then it boiled over, and then I couldn’t find your dishcloths – where are those? OK, I will take care of it. Now, eat this – I will feel a lot better if you have something in your system. Do you want crackers? OK. Let me go back down and get those. Wow, your stairs are steep. No, no, I am fine. It’s good for me, it’s just hurting my back. No, I am fine, I don’t need to take anything for it. I am going to eat my lunch in a minute, after I’ve cleaned up the microwave and washed the rest of the dishes and put some more clothes in the washer. Do you ever sweep your basement floor? It wouldn’t hurt. I went down there barefoot and stepped on something hard. It hurt. Well, I am just saying it wouldn’t hurt to sweep once in a while, even if you don’t ever go down there barefoot. Do you want a drink? Tea? No. I don’t want you having any caffeine this close to bedtime (1 p.m.) Do you want some iced water? You need to drink more water. You know how they say your urine should be clear? Yours isn’t clear. I want you to drink more water. Is that soup hot enough? Too hot? Do you want more crackers? OK I am just going to go back downstairs and sit down for five minutes. I am officially off duty! No! Not really! You call if you need a thing. Don’t move from there. Seriously. Don’t you move from there. I mean it. I am putting your crutches here across the room, so you can’t reach them. Don’t you get up and hop over to them, I don’t want you moving. I mean it. Here, drink that water now. OK, I am going downstairs. Call when you’re done. What do you think you’re going to want for dinner?”

When faced with that, hunger begins to be a viable alternative. (And yes, I do realize I am going to Bad Daughter Hell for being such an ungrateful bitch when they did so much for me when I needed it. Yes I do appreciate their help, and am profoundly grateful that I had them to help me when I was so royally fucked. This is just, observation, like I said. Recorded here for scientific and sociological purposes.)

OK so the anti-HFD principle is part of it. There’s another part of it though, which is when you ask other people for help – sometimes they refuse to give it to you. They place themselves in a position to judge whether you “really” need what you’ve asked for, and then decide that you don’t. This infuriating point is where my asstard brother comes in. Now, while I responded to my upbringing by becoming hyper-capable, he responded by becoming hyper-incapable. Everything is NOT a HFD to him because it’s just impossible. He just won’t do it. He ignores it unless it’s on fire, basically. If he doesn’t do it, it can’t be a HFD. At least, it can’t be his HFD, it will be someone else’s. So, he came to pick up my Mom while he was downtown on Wednesday. In response to my Mom’s “Did you see your sister’s broken foot?” he said, literally “Big Whoop.” and made a finger-twirling gesture. Seriously. (He’s 38 years old, not 17. Or 7.) He seriously said “Big Whoop.”

While he was there I asked him to please go by Walgreen’s and fill my prescription – if he had time. He did NOT have time. Nope, no time at all. (He so did, too.) Asshole. So I called another friend, all anxious about imposing – perhaps he could run me over to Walgreen’s to fill my prescription? No he could not. No time. OK. So for me this was like having all the skin peeled off the back of my skull, as far as discomfort goes. I mean, to make myself ASK is already insanely uncomfortable, but to ask, twice, and be refused, twice, makes me… drag my crippled ass out in the snow and do it my own fucking self, for fuck’s sake.

I would rather do it on my own, the way I want it done, with minimum of fuss, than put myself in the position of asking for help and being turned down. That’s just awful. So I won’t do it anymore, even if I have to kill myself to do whatever it is. Well, I will try to do it again, for Human Homework, later. But not now. I am asked-out for now. I am telling you, dealing with Other People is fucking complicated.

Which, I realize, is perhaps my own version of turning a thing into a HFD for no reason, huh?

Ironical.

I Cast a Pall

So, life with a cast is interesting. If you’ve seen the picture a few posts below you will have noticed that it’s one of them-there-newfangled ones, that’s not plaster but some kind of hardened plastic gauze. Mostly like… remember those easter eggs made out of string and sugar-water? Like that, but way harder. I got a lot of water down it tonight while I was showering. That’s Not Advised, even with a new-fangled kind, apparently. I thought I had properly Saran Wrapped myself, but evidently the recycling of last night’s Saran Wrap in an effort to Economize on Wrap Product is not a good plan. That wrap had lost all its wraptasticity. Wrapocity. Wrapadaciousness. So I just spent about half an hour hair-dryering the inside of this thing, and I think it’s mostly dry. May have to give it another go here in a while.*

Basically life with a cast is like life without a cast – tedious, aggravating and frequently tiresome… only 25 times slower and with the almost-constant threat of falling down.

It’s kind of like I’ve got lots and lots of extra gravity in that leg. It’s been suggested to me that I need to make my own cool sound effects as I walk, and I might, except my sound effects would be mostly “angry Godzilla on the rampage in downtown Tokyo” in sound.

Angry slow-mo roars of frustration and confusion, and lots of things being knocked out of the way in senseless rages. *Rrrrrrrroooooooaaaaarrrrr* THUNK *rrrrrrrrrooooaaarrr* THUNK. In fact, considering the way I have my laptop’s power-cord strung across the kitchen floor at the moment, I may meet a fitting Godzilla-like ending, sooner rather than later.

I am going back to work on Monday. Back to work with an option to work from home some days, if being at work (or, getting to work, really) seems too problematic once I’ve begun. I just really need to get a system down, I think, of getting all the things I need and bringing them to the correct floor with me, at the correct time. And I need to get my head in order, too. I was already fecking depressed and anxious before all this, and now I am anxious, depressed and handicapped. For someone with my Eeyore disposition, trying to be Pollyanna in the face of all of this is really, really hard. So if you know me – cheer me up next time we talk, OK? Tell me a joke, tell me a funny story, tell me to lighten the fuck up. I need it.

*I have also discovered another extremely ill-advised usage of canned air.

XRay Shots

I got these on a DVD, and they are way too sweet not to share!

Click to embiggen this first one.

Super-W00t!

WALKING CAST! I GOT ME SOME WALKING CAST!

I can walk on it! Walk on the foot! With the cast on it! Walk! All on my own! WHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! SWEET BLESSED INDEPENDENCE THY NAME IS PURPLE WALKING CAST!

More later, must go rest.

you may think you know

but you have no idea, how absolutely shit this is. I haven’t had a shower since last Wednesday night. I am sick therefore alternating with fever and chills, coughing my lungs out and doped-up on painkillers and therefore nonsensical much of the time. For instance, I just sat on the edge of my bed upstairs for an hour trying to decide if I needed to go to the bathroom badly enough to warrant a trip downstairs. Finally I decided, sure – why not?

I am bored of out my skull, but have no mental acuity to concentrate on anything. The last four days have been measured in 8-hour pain pill spans because I know at least I can pass out for a few hours once I take one. Tonight I took one at 4pm and fell into a pleasant coma only to have my Mom come in at 5pm and say loudly into the phone “no, she’s sleeping, I am not going to wake her!” and walk out again.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get in to see an orthopedic doctor on short notice? Luckily my cousin works in the orthopedic scheduling dept at SLU, and knows people who work at the one at WashU so I got an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Oh, what I have, BTW is called a Jones Fracture. Like it couldn’t have a more exotic name?

So tomorrow I go to the doctor and see what he has to say, whether I can get some kind of walking cast to make me mobile or not. There has to be some thing that will allow me to walk without putting pressure on this foot, right? Depending on what he has to say I guess I need to find myself some sort of patient advocate with my insurance company, and find out exactly what type of benefits I am entitled to. Like, I need one of those shower-chair things, but I see that those aren’t covered. What I guess I really need to find out is, if I have to be bedridden for the next few weeks (please baby Jesus, make that not true) then do I get a nurse or something? I mean, it’s all well and good that my Mom can be here for a few days, but what if she couldn’t? And she’s all traumatized and fretting about everything, it’s making me nuts. What is it about parents that makes any simple thing you tell them how to do some kind of 378 step process? Like:

“OK, the light bulbs are in the closet.”

“No, you’re in the bathroom.”

“Yes, the closet.”

“No, that’s my hairdryer.”

“Lightbulbs.”

“Right.”

“What wattage? I don’t know, what was the old one?”

“OK, well yes, throw the box away if it’s empty.”

“Yes.”

“OK.”

“That one doesn’t work? Did you flip the switch?”

“Ah. OK. NOW does it work?”

I understand why she frets if everything in her world is that complicated, all of the time. There’s no ‘just” anything. “Just grab some milk while you’re out, OK?” or “Just run over to Target for some Robitussin.” There’s absolutely no just.

And of course I feel like the most ungrateful wretch in the universe for freaking out, but I also have to deal with:

Did you call the doctor?

What did they say?

What did the nurse say?

When will they call back?

What do you think they’ll say then?

Do you want me to call them?

Do you want your aunt to call that doctor she knows?

She can if you want.

What do you want for dinner?

Since when don’t you eat yogurt?

Where do I have to go?

What do you need?

What’s the address?

Where’s your printer?

How does the Internet work here?

Can I print that?

Where’s your paper?

What cabinet?

Why don’t you keep it in the printer?

Do you know your toner is low?

and on and on and on. There’s a reason adult children and their parents don’t live together, you see. OK, enough kvetching from me. Wish me luck with the doctor tomorrow.

Broken Foot Watch – Day II

OK, so as I said yesterday, I thought it would be a good idea to fall down the stairs at my house and break my foot (specifically the outer-most metatarsal bone in my left foot, fractured and pulled apart a bit, but luckily not all crookedly or anything) I also sprained my ankle. This was on the opposite side to where I fell and cracked my knee and strained my hip on Tuesday (at the hospital “You fell twice this week? Do you get dizzy?” “No, I am a klutz.”)

This is… how to describe it? The uber suck of all time. Living in a three-story house with a broken foot you are not supposed to put any weight on is horrific. I am not quite sure what I am going to do – I am not even sure when I can go back to work. I have to see an orthopedic doctor this week, and he can determine if the bone is fusing properly, and when (or if) I get a walking cast. My Mom is staying with me and doing all the fetching/caretaking I need, which is great, but doesn’t seem fair to her. I am starting to do the crutches thing (they shot me up with some super-pain-killer at the hospital and then they’re like “now, try crutches!” when I was all loopy and out of it from the pain meds. To my way of thinking, their method could use some improvement.) So anyway, I tried the crutches last night at home and promptly fell down on my ass, taking my (hovering anxiously) Mom down with me. Since then she’s been reluctant to give them back, but I have used them several times today and am getting the hang of it.

I am all out of it on Vicodin, in fact falling asleep several times as I have been typing this. So I am afraid there’s little sense to be had from me. Will check my mail via laptop later tonight, and if I am awake will probably be bored and on IM. Now I go to crawl up the stairs in an extremely dignified manner.

Don’t you wish your… everything… was hot like me?

because my life needed more flavor…

I decided to fall down the stairs today and break my foot. All day at hospital. much pain meds, Mom staying here now. Updates later, when I can (maybe) get up the stairs.