I have been so very blessed with good health in my life. No broken bones, no sprains and very few stitches. Even the taking out of my teen-aged wisdom teeth took about 30 minutes from anesthesiology to a gauze-packed, incomprehensible speaking voice. When I think of all the bike spills, horse throws and tree falls I endured as a kid, I remind myself how lucky I am. At what point did my bones, joints and muscles start to bark back at me?
So last year, when the outside of my foot had a subtle, nagging pain, I went to a podiatrist. He informed me I had tendonitis. Tendonitis? What? Isn’t that an athletic disease? (All you people who know me can stop snickering now.) With all his years of medical study, years of residency and private practice -- and how does he figure this out? By looking at the bottom of my shoe heels. Thank you, Dr. Scholl.
Apparently, I pronate. Before you think I’m supporting some segment of the porn industry, it just means I roll out on the right side of my foot when I walk, thus putting pressure on the point where tendon meets bone. In defense of Dr. Happy Feet, he did also take x-rays and ordered an MRI on my ankle and foot area to confirm what my shoe heels told him. Not only did it confirm his initial diagnosis, but he believes I had a major – like “oh my gawd my foot” – foot injury in my life that might have weakened it. I know I’m a blonde, but that’s news to me.
He’s not quick to go to surgery, for which I’m very thankful. He exhausts – and below, you’ll see why I use “exhaust” – all options first. The tendonitis diagnosis led to three months of fun-filled foot frolicking:
Month 1. Wrap the foot/ankle and wear a Not-Ferragamo Walking Boot. But it might as well have had a Ferragamo logo on it to go with its $400 price tag. Zero to deductible met in .7 seconds. And on top of that, I found the exact boot on Walgreen’s website later for $70. Nah – there’s no price-gouging that would yield a healthcare crisis.
Month 1 – Part 2. Prescribes a TENS unit. There’s another $200 toward the deductible. TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator – an electrode that attaches to my foot to shock the blood into flowing through my foot. Great…he’s giving this to a blonde who enjoys drinking wine in the evenings.
Month 2. Just walking on the boot is not making it any better. Let’s keep the boot and raise her a pair of crutches. Remember me? The one who’s never had a broken bone? I would have had more coordination in a hip-hop dance class.
Month 2 - Part 2. Prescribes shoe inserts supposedly designed to keep me from rolling out when I walk. Here’s another $300, complements of my healthcare provider. And they don’t work…to this DAY I’m still shaving off the outsides of my heels.
Month 3. Orders for physical therapy. Ten sessions of using my foot to “write” an imaginary alphabet in the air. Ten sessions of doing things with weights and rubber bands on my foot. Ten sessions designed to either (1) make it better or (2) make it worse – either way, it’s supposed to predict the next course of action.
After Month 3, I knew that if none of this worked, my next step would involve surgery. I didn’t need Dr. Metatarcel to tell me that. And quite honestly, my foot’s not in that much pain. So I just abandoned the whole production and decided to play my own doctor. Lose weight; watch how I walk; wear well-made shoes. So far so good.
Oh well, at least my foot does tell me when rain is coming, so that’s a bonus!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)
Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.
But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.
You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.
Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.
Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.
“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.
Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.
Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.
See ya next year, Rocky.
But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.
You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.
Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.
Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.
“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.
Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.
Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.
See ya next year, Rocky.
When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?
So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.
Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.
So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.
And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.
Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.
So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.
And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Ike-isms (or “Terms That Blew Out of the Hurricane”)
After living through Category 2 Hurricane Ike, seven days without power (we were lucky – some are still without at 14 and counting), mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds and consuming more meat than Dr. Atkins, I thought this glossary of terms was applicable….
Power Envy – The completely draining, pit-of-the-stomach feeling one gets at the realization that the across-the-street neighbors have power, but you don’t. Side effects sweating and the urge to break something.
Power Guilt – The guilty feeling one gets upon finally having power reinstated before your friends and neighbors.
Hurricane Hair – Complete lack of styling of one’s hair due to lack of power and/or water; serves as a quick visual ID of who has power and who doesn’t.
“PC” Legs – Having nothing to do with political correctness, this affliction happens when one’s legs become pin cushions for mosquitoes.
Worker Worship – The uncontrollable urge to bow in honor (or get down on one’s knees and beg) at the utilities professionals working in the neighborhood.
Line Fatigue – The exhaustion a body experiences after being in a seemingly unending line for ice, gasoline and 4-way stops.
Shingle Shock – Unexpected and very quick anxiety one experiences at the sight of partially-left roofs OR the cost to replace them.
Floodge – The sludge that is left behind in a house after it had flooded.
Tree-ning – A phenomena where groups of trees are all leaning the same direction from the triple-digit MPH winds.
Storm Stench – The aromatic scent that comes from lack of showering, due to no water after the storm.
Withdrawl-Mart – The intense need for Wal-Mart to open again.
Power Envy – The completely draining, pit-of-the-stomach feeling one gets at the realization that the across-the-street neighbors have power, but you don’t. Side effects sweating and the urge to break something.
Power Guilt – The guilty feeling one gets upon finally having power reinstated before your friends and neighbors.
Hurricane Hair – Complete lack of styling of one’s hair due to lack of power and/or water; serves as a quick visual ID of who has power and who doesn’t.
“PC” Legs – Having nothing to do with political correctness, this affliction happens when one’s legs become pin cushions for mosquitoes.
Worker Worship – The uncontrollable urge to bow in honor (or get down on one’s knees and beg) at the utilities professionals working in the neighborhood.
Line Fatigue – The exhaustion a body experiences after being in a seemingly unending line for ice, gasoline and 4-way stops.
Shingle Shock – Unexpected and very quick anxiety one experiences at the sight of partially-left roofs OR the cost to replace them.
Floodge – The sludge that is left behind in a house after it had flooded.
Tree-ning – A phenomena where groups of trees are all leaning the same direction from the triple-digit MPH winds.
Storm Stench – The aromatic scent that comes from lack of showering, due to no water after the storm.
Withdrawl-Mart – The intense need for Wal-Mart to open again.
Friday, September 12, 2008
More Haiku (I know, I know)
Blowing wind, wet heat;
Waiting for Ike, please be kind;
Anticipating...
McCain picks woman;
Sarah Palin intrigues us.
Just win in the Fall.
Waiting for Ike, please be kind;
Anticipating...
McCain picks woman;
Sarah Palin intrigues us.
Just win in the Fall.
Can I Save Face With a Facebook Addiction?!?
A friend of mine invited me to join "Facebook." It sounds harmless enough and let's face it (really, no pun intended), I'm over 40 and happy to stay on the fringe of all these new social networking and texting technologies. So how bad could it be?
OH PLEASE. Now I post photos, give and accept "Flair" buttons, chat online, look for song quotes, eat online cupcakes, poke (and SuperPoke) people and might hyperventilate if I don't reach the acceptable "Lost" trivia level! (See my blog from April). And did I ever know that so many people cared about "My Lil Green Patch?!?" Well, they do!
The good news? It's great to catch up with old friends. It's neat to see a personal side of some of my favorite co-workers. I enjoy keeping in better touch with people than if I had to rely on old-fashioned letter-writing. I have fun with it and hopefully don't look like the techno-challenged geek that I really am! So if you've never tried Facebook, try it. I never thought I'd recommend anything like it. And if you're on Facebook, be sure to look me up and add me as a friend!
And BTW - the friend who invited me to Facebook, she never gets on it. It's like she gave me the drugs and then left me to deal with the addiction! Her loss, but I'll still get her for this!
OH PLEASE. Now I post photos, give and accept "Flair" buttons, chat online, look for song quotes, eat online cupcakes, poke (and SuperPoke) people and might hyperventilate if I don't reach the acceptable "Lost" trivia level! (See my blog from April). And did I ever know that so many people cared about "My Lil Green Patch?!?" Well, they do!
The good news? It's great to catch up with old friends. It's neat to see a personal side of some of my favorite co-workers. I enjoy keeping in better touch with people than if I had to rely on old-fashioned letter-writing. I have fun with it and hopefully don't look like the techno-challenged geek that I really am! So if you've never tried Facebook, try it. I never thought I'd recommend anything like it. And if you're on Facebook, be sure to look me up and add me as a friend!
And BTW - the friend who invited me to Facebook, she never gets on it. It's like she gave me the drugs and then left me to deal with the addiction! Her loss, but I'll still get her for this!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Cukoo for Haiku!
This weekend, we stayed at a Hotel Indigo in Chicago. All of the hotel marketing materials - from the front desk to the restaurant to our room - were written as haikus. So I was inspired to create a few of my own. If you have any YOU'D like to share, please reply to this post.
Edouard, he blew in
Like a scared little sissy
Today we were spared.
Southwest Airlines Trip,
The fat lady’s to my right.
Hide your peanuts folks.
Red wine or white wine?
What is my preference tonight?
That the glass is full!
Brake lights in the front,
Merging vehicles threaten;
Commuting is Hell.
Big brown eyes longing,
Slobber slowly drips to floor.
Zach awaits dinner.
Pretty fertile soil,
Violated and pillaged;
Weeds take over beds.
Edouard, he blew in
Like a scared little sissy
Today we were spared.
Southwest Airlines Trip,
The fat lady’s to my right.
Hide your peanuts folks.
Red wine or white wine?
What is my preference tonight?
That the glass is full!
Brake lights in the front,
Merging vehicles threaten;
Commuting is Hell.
Big brown eyes longing,
Slobber slowly drips to floor.
Zach awaits dinner.
Pretty fertile soil,
Violated and pillaged;
Weeds take over beds.
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