Sunday, November 24, 2013
I Flushed the Toilet [Now updated by photojournalism...]
I've always longed for great stories to go along with my broken bones.
"It was that double-back ziparoo round-off into a triple-toed handspring spring roll that broke my big toe, a small price to pay for Olympic Gold..."
That sort of thing.
A few weeks back, I cracked the crapola out of my left lower shin. I got my leg trapped between my speeding wheelchair and a mop.
Oh, you don't need to know.
It's not like there is any snow or ice here.
No deeds of derring-do.
Not even any house-cleaning.
Haven't been wrestling Buddy the Outrageosly Large Maine Coon for his weird Mr. Potato Head, made of cheap felt. Well, I have, but without injury.
There've been no intrepid home invaders trying to leap into the house through a broken window over the washer. That was last year, and this year, I have Bear Repellent.
But last night...
I flushed the toilet and may have fractured my ulna/wrist.
I went to bed straight away, with a handful of candy and my music playing very, very loudly in my oddly shaped earbuds. Woke myself several times yelling as I pushed off on that hand in an effort to hoist the heft into a more comfortable position. Then this morning, CRPS decided it was offended to have another of its territories maltreated, and the hand has gone ice cold. No swelling, no redness, no wrist at a right angle to its forearm. It may be a tendon, a sprain, a nerve issue, a small fracture. Like Honey Badger, CRPS don't care.
Icy CRPS? It burns. It hurts. I cry. I'm the portrait of immaturity. I EMBODY immaturity.
And that place on my leg? The swelling is almost all gone. The bruise is still ugly but the pain much better. And... that precise area is hot. Which may mean infection, though that's a hell of a stretch, especially since there is no hardware there. Still.
So, baby that I am, I called go-to-guy doctor, wimpering and whining. Was I partly driven because Fred called to say, "Oh, by the way, someone had an extra ticket to The Nutcracker... I will be a while." Of course not. Who gives a hoot, really? I mean, I saw Baryshnikov in The Nutcracker in San Francisco. And everyone knows the music sucks, and, well, you know. Ho ho ho.
The doctor said to apply ice, and I just have to politely ignore that. He still knows nothing of basic CRPS care. That got to me. Elevate it.
Luckily, I didn't scream: "If anyone gave a good goddamn they'd chop these appendages off, or slap two-dozen plus three (to die on) 100 mcg Fentanyl patches all over moi. If anyone gave a good goddamn they'd shoot me between the eyes."
Good thing I decided to cook Fred, Bianca, Sven and a petulant Cabana Boy one kickass stir fry before going to the bathroom and FLUSHING THE TOILET.
Tomorrow, off we'll trot to get x-rays, and they'll be normal except for hairline nonsense and an alarmed radiologist who'll cry "osteoporosis out the wazoo," and run screaming down lead-lined hallways.
That's right. I flushed the toilet.
Wanna make something of it?
Fred is hanging in there, by the way. He's taking the high road and trying not to worry about his hearing. And WTF, he's at the freaking ballet. One non-hearing ear, the other with tinnitus. On his way home, he's picking up a wrist immobilizer. That's the one piece of orthopedic equipment we are lacking.
© 2013 L. Ryan
at 2:50 PM