Frankentoe

Georgia hates me.  I'm truly starting to believe this.  Only instead of my house whispering violently at me to "Get Out!" like the Amityville Horror house, it's the entire state of Georgia telling me.  It's now been exactly two years since I moved here, and in that time I have worn a cast for the first time ever, broken two bones (one of them in multiple places), had my toe cut into on 3 different occasions because of improper nail healing, had appendicitis and still can't find a hairdresser with whom I am completely satisfied.  Now I realize that one could argue the appendicitis was just coincidental, as were the breaks--or the result of my now being 47 and clumsy.  Still, it seems that the coincidences are stacking up, and not in my favor.

No doubt everyone is getting tired of hearing about my Frankentoe, and heaven knows I'm getting tired of talking my tarsal tribulations, but I'm gonna just sit here and vent a little more anyway.  Shortly after the most recent procedure with Dr. Knickknacks a month ago (today), I went to visit the girlie in NY.  My instructions were to soak the foot at least once a day in a tub of Epsom salts and betadine, hose it down after soaking with peroxide, then let the toe "air out" for an hour or so before wrapping it back up.  No antibiotics were prescribed, which I thought odd.  But I'm not a doctor, so what do I know?

Because there was nothing to soak my foot in short of cooking pots in the kitchenette, which I didn't think future residents would particularly appreciate, we went in search of a suitable substitute at CVS and found a medium-sized blue tub of the kind one might fill with drinks for a party.  After taking off my bandages back at the hotel, we discovered that my toe was now an attractive lobster red, as though I had sunburned it in the extreme.  It was inflamed and angry-looking, and exceptionally tender to the touch.  As in "breathe on it and I'll scream" tender.  Soaking it was an excruciating enterprise, even in lukewarm water, made worse only by the air hitting it afterwards.  Frankentoe was less problematic when wrapped up in sterile dressings and Polysporin, but I still suffered from sudden twinges of serious pain during the visit, for which I'd have to stop what I was doing or saying at that moment till the pain passed.  It made the visit interesting, though I did my best to downplay it so as not to ruin my limited time with the girlie.

This picture doesn't do the red justice, but you'll get the idea.  Yay, grody toe!!

I arrived back home on Monday, nearly a week after the procedure, after an arduous hobble through Atlanta's enormous airport and the endless parking lot to retrieve my vehicle, which resembled nothing so much as a big metal box of hellfire from sitting for days in the sweltering heat.  I sat down for my daily soak, only to notice that my toe was as red as ever.  Now I realize that having someone whack into one's flesh with a tiny machete is gonna piss off the surrounding flesh, but it still seemed unrealistic that no healing would have yet occurred.  The skin around my flame-red toe was beginning to peel, just like almost every sunburn I've ever had.  I was still getting painful twinges periodically.  It finally occurred to me that if it was like a sunburn, maybe I should try using Aloe Vera on it, which I did--annoyed that I hadn't thought of it sooner.  The aloe did help deaden the pain enough to make it tolerable, fortunately.

I became convinced that Dr. Knickknacks had been overly enthusiastic with the freeze spray and given me frostbite, or at least a significant freezer burn.  Nothing else made sense.  As a result, I renamed Dr. Knick "Frostbite Frank."  (Because I like alliteration.  I'm cool like that.)

By the time the second week was almost over, my toe had finally faded from Torched Redhead to a violently purplish-pink to a moderate fushcia.  At last I could touch it and dress it without gritting my teeth, just in time for my follow up visit to Frostbite Frank (FF).  I dutifully went to FF's office and removed the dressing.  He looked at it, observed that the corner was not yet closed up, then jammed a Q-tip aggessively inside the hole, making me buck a good foot off the table.  He looked at the Q-tip and then proclaimed me free of infection.  Thanks, FF...I appreciate doctors who assault open wounds without first warning me.  I told him my freezer burn theory and he insisted that he'd have had to spray me for an hour with the spray for that to have happened.  But then he would say that.

Instead, FF decided that what I actually had was "contact dermatitis,"  which I seriously doubted.  I've had contact dermatitis--hello, adhesive allergic reactions!--and this didn't look remotely the same.  I've also never had dermatitis PEEL, much less extensively.  FF clarified, saying it meant that I'd had an allergic reaction to the Neosporin I was using.  Except I wasn't using Neosporin, genius...I never do because it always makes my skin burn.  I used Polysporin instead, which has always helped and which has never given me a reaction--never mind the fact that it was only put on the open wound...which was the only part getting better.  Then he tried to tell me that I'd had a reaction to the Betadine I was supposed to soak in and put on the wound when I dressed my toe.  Again, genius, I don't think so...if that were true, then why is the red ONLY on the top of my toe and not covering my entire foot, which also soaked in the Betadine wash?  Logic fail, FF.  FAIL.  His next attempt at stifling me was to suggest that I had not been letting enough "air" get to the toe.  Except I was following YOUR directions, dude.  When he'd finished blowing me off, he re-wrapped the toe and sent me on my way with instructions to continue with the Epsom soak, but to discontinue the antibiotic cream and Betadine and to come back in two more weeks to make sure the hole had closed.

I spent much of the rest of that afternoon stuck in traffic because of an accident on a highway near me, after which I ran a couple of errands, grabbed dinner and then went to my choral rehearsal.  After practice, I went home and refilled my basin to soak my toe.  When I took off the dressing, I discovered that, once again, my toe was bright red.   Once again, it was swollen and excruciating to the touch.  It became clear to me that even on the remote chance I did have contact dermatitis, I'd gotten it from FF's office, presumably from his supposedly sterile dressing.  The fact that Frankentoe experienced a crimson tide directly after two visits to FF could hardly be coincidental.  The excruciating twinges (and by "twinge" I mean "flaming red-hot poker shoved directly under my cuticle") began again and I spent most of the rest of the evening in tears.  In between episodes, I researched dermatitis.  I still wasn't convinced that I had it.  The hubs agreed to go to the store, even though it was late, to get me some non-expired cortisone cream on the off-chance I did have dermatitis, happy to be able to help in some small way.

It's Baaaaaaack!

Much of the third week was spent like the first week after the procedure:  endless foot soaks, angry flesh, and intermittent pain.  By the beginning of the next weekend I was starting to see pus coming out of the corner, so I knew that it was infected again, regardless of what FF had said.  I almost went to see my hero FMD over the weekend, but I didn't want to keep being a whiny pain and decided to give the toe and FF the benefit of the doubt.  By Monday, it was just getting worse, so I called to see if FMD was available.  Naturally, he wasn't--I'd blown my chance.  So I called FF's office instead, only to find out that he was out of town all week.  Great.  His nurse/receptionist agreed after hearing me out to email him, however, and see if he would call in an antibiotic.  Which he eventually did.  I ran over to Walgreens that evening to pick up a Z-Pak.  Um, okaaaaaay.  My immediate reaction was that "FMD wouldn't have given me a Z-pak..."  Z-paks are traditionally used more for respiratory illnesses.  I've had more than a few for bronchitis and/or sinusitis, for which they work brilliantly.  But a poisoned toe?  Yeah, not so much...because my toe doesn't have a sinus infection, doncha know...

Still, I dutifully took the Z-pak, which did exactly nothing for most of the first three days.  When I take it for colds, I see results within 24 hours.  I'm just sayin'.  By the 4th and 5th days, Frankentoe finally seemed to be improving, or at least sucking marginally less.  The second I finished taking the antibiotics, however, Frankentoe got worse and started spewing pus again.  Awesome.

Saturday I called the local urgent care to see if FMD was on duty, which he was.  Before I could talk myself back out of it, I drove over to see him.  I told the receptionist I was willing to wait for him specifically, since he'd already dealt with my toe issues previously.  She didn't answer.  I asked if she'd heard me.  She got a little testy, then I pointed out she hadn't answered, so I didn't know.  "Sorry."  Sure you are.  Eventually I got called back, explained everything to the nurse, and waited for FMD.  Who did not arrive.  I apologized to the perfectly nice doctor who did come in, saying I wanted FMD who was already familiar with the problem.  He was totally cool with it and left to get him.

FMD came in, looked at my toe, listened to my tale of woe, and pretty much immediately said "It looks like a staph infection."  But because he is AWESOME and, you know, actually intelligent, he did not assume he knew everything or that I was an idiot who knew nothing (like certain podiatrists I could name), and decided to do something shocking--he took a CULTURE of the infection to determine exactly what kind it was so it could be properly medicated.  Of course this meant I had to be cut yet again, but for FMD, I'll do just about anything.  I seriously want to have his little doctor babies.  He is the MAN.

FMD whipped out the freeze spray, but concentrated it in a short blast directly to the afflicted corner so he could avoid the the ravaged, three-times peeled already toe top.  He cut into the corner to release any impacted pus and to swab it for a culture.  It was highly uncomfortable and painful in spite of the spray, but I put on my big girl panties and handled it.  He gave me a prescription for Doxycycline (used in the treatment of bacterial infections including chlamydia and syphillis, so I won't have to worry about those little problems for a while) and told me to start taking it immediately and that someone should call me, probably on Monday, with the lab results and let me know if we needed to change medications or not.  Then he sent the nurse back in to hose out my toe with saline and put a fresh, non-staph-laden dressing on it.

This--THIS--made sense to me.  A staph infection.  THAT was logical.  THAT explained all my symptoms.  The prescribed medication also seemed appropriate to the situation.  Why should competent doctoring be so elusive for me down here??  More importantly, why must FMD insist on working at the urgent care instead of becoming my personal physician?  And in spite of it all, he has character.  He refused to comment on FF's ineptitude or anything regarding him, though he did raise his eyebrows sky high when he asked if FF had given me any antibiotics and I said "no."  Eloquent commentary, that.

Within 24 hours of starting the doxycycline, my toe was already starting to do better.  And, as promised, someone from the clinic called me yesterday morning to let me know that I had indeed tested positive for staph and should just finish taking all the doxycycline.  Of course, I was also told to keep my appointment with FF today so he'd "know what was going on."  Yeah, that's not gonna happen.  I called yesterday and had a lovely chat with FF's machine, on which I mumbled lame excuses about why I couldn't keep the appointment and how I would call later to reschedule.  Which I won't.  There's no way in hell I'm going back to that office while I have an open wound (if ever), because I am 99% sure that's where I got the staph infection in the first place.  Staph infection from the staff.  Yeah, not happening.

Today I've had my 6th dose of probably 10-days worth of doxycycline, and my toe, for the first time in a month, is starting to look like an actual toe.  The furious fuschia and malevolent pink have faded to the pale pink of healing new skin and the hole in the corner of my toe where the nail root was removed is already closing up.  My cuticle no longer sits 1/8 of an inch off the nail bed.  I can again bend my toe.  The peeling has mostly stopped, other than leftover dying skin.  All of this happened in just three days.  THREE DAYS.

Yay, FMD!!  I will keep you supplied in snickerdoodles for LIFE!

What should have taken maybe a week to be mostly healed has taken a month, and would likely never have healed because of FF's refusal to take me seriously or, you know, diagnose me correctly.  However, assuming he did his original job correctly and effectively killed the relevant section of damaged nail root so it will stop hanging every time it tries to grow back out, I'll consider this a win.  A dubious win, but a win nonetheless.  And maybe, just maybe, by the end of summer--some 15 months after my toe was first broken--I can finally stop messing about with said toe.  Walking would be nice.  I'd like to be able to walk and wear real shoes again.  I think I've worn real shoes exactly three times in the last 14 months.

It would be nice to talk about something other than what I've damaged lately and why Georgia is trying to reject me like a botched organ transplant.  Sigh.

EDITED TO ADD:

Interestingly, I was just looking at my discharge sheet from FMD last night and discovered that my official diagnosis was for "Paronychia (pare-o-nik-ee-uh)."  So of course I had to look it up on the magic Google last night and, wouldn't you know, it described my symptoms exactly.  And there were pictures that looked just like my toe.  Isn't it funny how one so-called doctor can stare at my foot and be completely oblivious to the severity of an infection, instead offering me load after load of bullshit explanations for the toe's condition while another can merely glance at the same toe and nail the diagnosis even before lab results for the culture come back?  Or that one of my friends, who is an ER nurse, didn't even read this post and was instantly freaking out just because of the first picture that posted with it?  Because it turns out, you see, that when the red extends past the cuticle line, it means that the infection is creeping well into your injured digit, far past any pus-filled abcesses.  Which is, ya know, SERIOUS.

Did I mention I won't be going back to Dr. Effed-Up-My-Toe ever again?  Yeah, that's a no-brainer.

Meanwhile, a week later, the toe is doing much better and mostly looks like a toe again, albeit with an oddly-dented nail (yet another souvenir of Dr. Dumbass' ministrations).  It is still more pink than it probably should be, but then it has 3-4 layers of skin to finish re-growing.  There is a bit of nail apparently growing out of the nail bed, though, and I can only hope that it is a truncated version which will grow smoothly out and that the corner of the root is indeed dead and not destined to hang yet again.  Because if it does, I will be seriously pissed.  I really do NOT want to have to go through this all over again.  Heck, I'm pretty much over the daily salt soaks for over a month...the idea of having someone hack into my poor toe for a 4th time is less than attractive.

Still, for now at least, my toe is healing nicely from its many trials.  Fingers crossed things stay that way.  Even in Georgia it would be awkward to wear flip-flops all winter.  Again.

Frankentoe

Georgia hates me.  I'm truly starting to believe this.  Only instead of my house whispering violently at me to "Get Out!" like the Amityville Horror house, it's the entire state of Georgia telling me.  It's now been exactly two years since I moved here, and in that time I have worn a cast for the first time ever, broken two bones (one of them in multiple places), had my toe cut into on 3 different occasions because of improper nail healing, had appendicitis and still can't find a hairdresser with whom I am completely satisfied.  Now I realize that one could argue the appendicitis was just coincidental, as were the breaks--or the result of my now being 47 and clumsy.  Still, it seems that the coincidences are stacking up, and not in my favor.

No doubt everyone is getting tired of hearing about my Frankentoe, and heaven knows I'm getting tired of talking my tarsal tribulations, but I'm gonna just sit here and vent a little more anyway.  Shortly after the most recent procedure with Dr. Knickknacks a month ago (today), I went to visit the girlie in NY.  My instructions were to soak the foot at least once a day in a tub of Epsom salts and betadine, hose it down after soaking with peroxide, then let the toe "air out" for an hour or so before wrapping it back up.  No antibiotics were prescribed, which I thought odd.  But I'm not a doctor, so what do I know?

Because there was nothing to soak my foot in short of cooking pots in the kitchenette, which I didn't think future residents would particularly appreciate, we went in search of a suitable substitute at CVS and found a medium-sized blue tub of the kind one might fill with drinks for a party.  After taking off my bandages back at the hotel, we discovered that my toe was now an attractive lobster red, as though I had sunburned it in the extreme.  It was inflamed and angry-looking, and exceptionally tender to the touch.  As in "breathe on it and I'll scream" tender.  Soaking it was an excruciating enterprise, even in lukewarm water, made worse only by the air hitting it afterwards.  Frankentoe was less problematic when wrapped up in sterile dressings and Polysporin, but I still suffered from sudden twinges of serious pain during the visit, for which I'd have to stop what I was doing or saying at that moment till the pain passed.  It made the visit interesting, though I did my best to downplay it so as not to ruin my limited time with the girlie.

This picture doesn't do the red justice, but you'll get the idea.  Yay, grody toe!!

I arrived back home on Monday, nearly a week after the procedure, after an arduous hobble through Atlanta's enormous airport and the endless parking lot to retrieve my vehicle, which resembled nothing so much as a big metal box of hellfire from sitting for days in the sweltering heat.  I sat down for my daily soak, only to notice that my toe was as red as ever.  Now I realize that having someone whack into one's flesh with a tiny machete is gonna piss off the surrounding flesh, but it still seemed unrealistic that no healing would have yet occurred.  The skin around my flame-red toe was beginning to peel, just like almost every sunburn I've ever had.  I was still getting painful twinges periodically.  It finally occurred to me that if it was like a sunburn, maybe I should try using Aloe Vera on it, which I did--annoyed that I hadn't thought of it sooner.  The aloe did help deaden the pain enough to make it tolerable, fortunately.

I became convinced that Dr. Knickknacks had been overly enthusiastic with the freeze spray and given me frostbite, or at least a significant freezer burn.  Nothing else made sense.  As a result, I renamed Dr. Knick "Frostbite Frank."  (Because I like alliteration.  I'm cool like that.)

By the time the second week was almost over, my toe had finally faded from Torched Redhead to a violently purplish-pink to a moderate fushcia.  At last I could touch it and dress it without gritting my teeth, just in time for my follow up visit to Frostbite Frank (FF).  I dutifully went to FF's office and removed the dressing.  He looked at it, observed that the corner was not yet closed up, then jammed a Q-tip aggessively inside the hole, making me buck a good foot off the table.  He looked at the Q-tip and then proclaimed me free of infection.  Thanks, FF...I appreciate doctors who assault open wounds without first warning me.  I told him my freezer burn theory and he insisted that he'd have had to spray me for an hour with the spray for that to have happened.  But then he would say that.

Instead, FF decided that what I actually had was "contact dermatitis,"  which I seriously doubted.  I've had contact dermatitis--hello, adhesive allergic reactions!--and this didn't look remotely the same.  I've also never had dermatitis PEEL, much less extensively.  FF clarified, saying it meant that I'd had an allergic reaction to the Neosporin I was using.  Except I wasn't using Neosporin, genius...I never do because it always makes my skin burn.  I used Polysporin instead, which has always helped and which has never given me a reaction--never mind the fact that it was only put on the open wound...which was the only part getting better.  Then he tried to tell me that I'd had a reaction to the Betadine I was supposed to soak in and put on the wound when I dressed my toe.  Again, genius, I don't think so...if that were true, then why is the red ONLY on the top of my toe and not covering my entire foot, which also soaked in the Betadine wash?  Logic fail, FF.  FAIL.  His next attempt at stifling me was to suggest that I had not been letting enough "air" get to the toe.  Except I was following YOUR directions, dude.  When he'd finished blowing me off, he re-wrapped the toe and sent me on my way with instructions to continue with the Epsom soak, but to discontinue the antibiotic cream and Betadine and to come back in two more weeks to make sure the hole had closed.

I spent much of the rest of that afternoon stuck in traffic because of an accident on a highway near me, after which I ran a couple of errands, grabbed dinner and then went to my choral rehearsal.  After practice, I went home and refilled my basin to soak my toe.  When I took off the dressing, I discovered that, once again, my toe was bright red.   Once again, it was swollen and excruciating to the touch.  It became clear to me that even on the remote chance I did have contact dermatitis, I'd gotten it from FF's office, presumably from his supposedly sterile dressing.  The fact that Frankentoe experienced a crimson tide directly after two visits to FF could hardly be coincidental.  The excruciating twinges (and by "twinge" I mean "flaming red-hot poker shoved directly under my cuticle") began again and I spent most of the rest of the evening in tears.  In between episodes, I researched dermatitis.  I still wasn't convinced that I had it.  The hubs agreed to go to the store, even though it was late, to get me some non-expired cortisone cream on the off-chance I did have dermatitis, happy to be able to help in some small way.

It's Baaaaaaack!

Much of the third week was spent like the first week after the procedure:  endless foot soaks, angry flesh, and intermittent pain.  By the beginning of the next weekend I was starting to see pus coming out of the corner, so I knew that it was infected again, regardless of what FF had said.  I almost went to see my hero FMD over the weekend, but I didn't want to keep being a whiny pain and decided to give the toe and FF the benefit of the doubt.  By Monday, it was just getting worse, so I called to see if FMD was available.  Naturally, he wasn't--I'd blown my chance.  So I called FF's office instead, only to find out that he was out of town all week.  Great.  His nurse/receptionist agreed after hearing me out to email him, however, and see if he would call in an antibiotic.  Which he eventually did.  I ran over to Walgreens that evening to pick up a Z-Pak.  Um, okaaaaaay.  My immediate reaction was that "FMD wouldn't have given me a Z-pak..."  Z-paks are traditionally used more for respiratory illnesses.  I've had more than a few for bronchitis and/or sinusitis, for which they work brilliantly.  But a poisoned toe?  Yeah, not so much...because my toe doesn't have a sinus infection, doncha know...

Still, I dutifully took the Z-pak, which did exactly nothing for most of the first three days.  When I take it for colds, I see results within 24 hours.  I'm just sayin'.  By the 4th and 5th days, Frankentoe finally seemed to be improving, or at least sucking marginally less.  The second I finished taking the antibiotics, however, Frankentoe got worse and started spewing pus again.  Awesome.

Saturday I called the local urgent care to see if FMD was on duty, which he was.  Before I could talk myself back out of it, I drove over to see him.  I told the receptionist I was willing to wait for him specifically, since he'd already dealt with my toe issues previously.  She didn't answer.  I asked if she'd heard me.  She got a little testy, then I pointed out she hadn't answered, so I didn't know.  "Sorry."  Sure you are.  Eventually I got called back, explained everything to the nurse, and waited for FMD.  Who did not arrive.  I apologized to the perfectly nice doctor who did come in, saying I wanted FMD who was already familiar with the problem.  He was totally cool with it and left to get him.

FMD came in, looked at my toe, listened to my tale of woe, and pretty much immediately said "It looks like a staph infection."  But because he is AWESOME and, you know, actually intelligent, he did not assume he knew everything or that I was an idiot who knew nothing (like certain podiatrists I could name), and decided to do something shocking--he took a CULTURE of the infection to determine exactly what kind it was so it could be properly medicated.  Of course this meant I had to be cut yet again, but for FMD, I'll do just about anything.  I seriously want to have his little doctor babies.  He is the MAN.

FMD whipped out the freeze spray, but concentrated it in a short blast directly to the afflicted corner so he could avoid the the ravaged, three-times peeled already toe top.  He cut into the corner to release any impacted pus and to swab it for a culture.  It was highly uncomfortable and painful in spite of the spray, but I put on my big girl panties and handled it.  He gave me a prescription for Doxycycline (used in the treatment of bacterial infections including chlamydia and syphillis, so I won't have to worry about those little problems for a while) and told me to start taking it immediately and that someone should call me, probably on Monday, with the lab results and let me know if we needed to change medications or not.  Then he sent the nurse back in to hose out my toe with saline and put a fresh, non-staph-laden dressing on it.

This--THIS--made sense to me.  A staph infection.  THAT was logical.  THAT explained all my symptoms.  The prescribed medication also seemed appropriate to the situation.  Why should competent doctoring be so elusive for me down here??  More importantly, why must FMD insist on working at the urgent care instead of becoming my personal physician?  And in spite of it all, he has character.  He refused to comment on FF's ineptitude or anything regarding him, though he did raise his eyebrows sky high when he asked if FF had given me any antibiotics and I said "no."  Eloquent commentary, that.

Within 24 hours of starting the doxycycline, my toe was already starting to do better.  And, as promised, someone from the clinic called me yesterday morning to let me know that I had indeed tested positive for staph and should just finish taking all the doxycycline.  Of course, I was also told to keep my appointment with FF today so he'd "know what was going on."  Yeah, that's not gonna happen.  I called yesterday and had a lovely chat with FF's machine, on which I mumbled lame excuses about why I couldn't keep the appointment and how I would call later to reschedule.  Which I won't.  There's no way in hell I'm going back to that office while I have an open wound (if ever), because I am 99% sure that's where I got the staph infection in the first place.  Staph infection from the staff.  Yeah, not happening.

Today I've had my 6th dose of probably 10-days worth of doxycycline, and my toe, for the first time in a month, is starting to look like an actual toe.  The furious fuschia and malevolent pink have faded to the pale pink of healing new skin and the hole in the corner of my toe where the nail root was removed is already closing up.  My cuticle no longer sits 1/8 of an inch off the nail bed.  I can again bend my toe.  The peeling has mostly stopped, other than leftover dying skin.  All of this happened in just three days.  THREE DAYS.

Yay, FMD!!  I will keep you supplied in snickerdoodles for LIFE!

What should have taken maybe a week to be mostly healed has taken a month, and would likely never have healed because of FF's refusal to take me seriously or, you know, diagnose me correctly.  However, assuming he did his original job correctly and effectively killed the relevant section of damaged nail root so it will stop hanging every time it tries to grow back out, I'll consider this a win.  A dubious win, but a win nonetheless.  And maybe, just maybe, by the end of summer--some 15 months after my toe was first broken--I can finally stop messing about with said toe.  Walking would be nice.  I'd like to be able to walk and wear real shoes again.  I think I've worn real shoes exactly three times in the last 14 months.

It would be nice to talk about something other than what I've damaged lately and why Georgia is trying to reject me like a botched organ transplant.  Sigh.

EDITED TO ADD:

Interestingly, I was just looking at my discharge sheet from FMD last night and discovered that my official diagnosis was for "Paronychia (pare-o-nik-ee-uh)."  So of course I had to look it up on the magic Google last night and, wouldn't you know, it described my symptoms exactly.  And there were pictures that looked just like my toe.  Isn't it funny how one so-called doctor can stare at my foot and be completely oblivious to the severity of an infection, instead offering me load after load of bullshit explanations for the toe's condition while another can merely glance at the same toe and nail the diagnosis even before lab results for the culture come back?  Or that one of my friends, who is an ER nurse, didn't even read this post and was instantly freaking out just because of the first picture that posted with it?  Because it turns out, you see, that when the red extends past the cuticle line, it means that the infection is creeping well into your injured digit, far past any pus-filled abcesses.  Which is, ya know, SERIOUS.

Did I mention I won't be going back to Dr. Effed-Up-My-Toe ever again?  Yeah, that's a no-brainer.

Meanwhile, a week later, the toe is doing much better and mostly looks like a toe again, albeit with an oddly-dented nail (yet another souvenir of Dr. Dumbass' ministrations).  It is still more pink than it probably should be, but then it has 3-4 layers of skin to finish re-growing.  There is a bit of nail apparently growing out of the nail bed, though, and I can only hope that it is a truncated version which will grow smoothly out and that the corner of the root is indeed dead and not destined to hang yet again.  Because if it does, I will be seriously pissed.  I really do NOT want to have to go through this all over again.  Heck, I'm pretty much over the daily salt soaks for over a month...the idea of having someone hack into my poor toe for a 4th time is less than attractive.

Still, for now at least, my toe is healing nicely from its many trials.  Fingers crossed things stay that way.  Even in Georgia it would be awkward to wear flip-flops all winter.  Again.

House of Pain

Not to sound macabre at all, but I hope one day I am fortunate enough to follow my mother-in-law's example and drop dead on the spot from a massive coronary or giant aneurysm or whatever it was she had, because if I get cancer (which seems highly probable after spending 18 years in a household full of smokers), I am screwed.  And not just because I have cancer.  The thing is, I hate needles.  Hate them.  As in "get the hell  away from me with that pointy metal spike, you MoFo!"  I always have.

I used to think it was just a "thing"; I mean, lots of people have needle phobia.  The grand irony is that I am a seamstress and play with needles and pins all the time, frequently stabbing myself with them as well.  Perhaps the difference is that I (theoretically) have control over my sharp pointy objects.  Also, they don't tend to penetrate as far into my flesh as when someone else is wielding them.  Regardless, I hate going to doctors and dentists because they inevitably hurt me (a lot), even when it's for my own good.  It wasn't till recently that I discovered this may be--in part--a side effect of spinning the genetic lottery and coming up with the MC1R recessive gene on chromosome 16.  In other words, red hair.  I've always heard that redheads tend to have increased pain sensitivity and certainly I do as well, though only for specific types of pain.  For example, while it still hurts me, I can generally handle blunt force (like walking into doorways, walls, people, lamp posts, etc) reasonably well.  I once walked around for weeks with an abscessed tooth and didn't know it until the dentist showed me the x-rays.  And that doesn't even count my walking around for 3-4 days with appendicitis, because it was only "a little distracting."  What I don't handle particularly well are instances in which my hull integrity is breached, such as by knives, needles, etc.  My skin has always reacted rather badly to such things, so I always assumed it was because I was so fair-skinned.  Recent studies like here and here explain that having not one but two copies of the MC1R gene not only gives us our red hair but, according to Pincott's article, causes receptors in our nervous system modulate pain more intensely.  At least that's the finding of one Edwin Liem of the University of Louisville, who further believes that the gene also affects hormones which then additionally stimulate pain receptors.  Also we bruise more easily (duh).
Cool.  Suddenly I'm finding my gingatude slightly less awesome.

Recent studies have also shown that redheads are more difficult to anesthetize, requiring 20-25% more general and local anesthesia than people of other hair colors, which may also contribute to why we are more than twice as likely as others to avoid dental care.  I know I am.  Going to the dentist when I was a kid was pretty freakin' traumatic.  At one point in my life I managed to avoid going to the dentist for 7 years.  I go regularly now, but it's still a stressful endeavor for me so I always have to find practitioners who claim to "cater to cowards."  Too bad all these studies weren't around when I was a kid and being tortured by brutal hygienists with little or no anesthesia; dental visits might have been much less horrific for me.  And I can definitely vouch for the "more anesthesia" thing as well; just before I got my epidural during labor I was told that I would only feel the first needle, which would numb the area so I didn't feel anything afterwards.  They were wrong.  I felt the first needle.  I felt the second.  I felt the third.  I felt them slide the last needle out of my back and off the tubing.  I had to be held down my both my husband and a nurse in order to keep me still enough to complete the procedure because I was sobbing so violently from the pain.  I'm starting to think that all redheads just need to come standard with medic-alert bracelets that read "Please jack me up with enough anesthesia to fell a rhino."

Anyway, all this is a precursor to explain the day of pain today which I've been dreading.  Last month I was supposed to go and have blood drawn for some routine labwork; some 5+ weeks later I finally forced myself back to the doctor's office.  I made every excuse I could to drag my feet, the most common being that since I slept too late (they suggested coming in at 8 am so I could break my fast sooner--I don't do early anymore) I was too hungry and it wasn't worth the bother.  I also told myself that if I got up and went at 8 am I could reward myself with breakfast at Panera's (because apparently I treat myself like a dog--"good, Ginger...GOOD Ginger!").  So naturally, if I couldn't get up and to the doctor's in time to be back at Panera's by 10:30 before they stopped serving breakfast, there was likewise no point in going if I was going to miss my lovely, lovely little power sandwich.  And of course the test was routine, so there was no rush.  Justification much, Ginger?

I decided to go ahead and force myself to go to the doctor's office today since I already had an appointment to see a podiatrist so I could have my big toe chopped off.  Okay, not really, but that's how it's going to feel.  My poor, pitiful big toe has suffered much in the past year.  The day before I went to Orlando with my friend, I stopped by a nail salon for a much-needed mani-pedi.  Fatal mistake.  On the plus side, the technician trimmed off the very last bit of damaged toenail that was originally traumatized by last year's break.  So finally, I have a relatively smooth, flat toenail of a normal width and not a mutant thickened one.  Only took a year...go me.  Of course, the sliver of toenail that the FMD removed in January because of my epic hangnail and infection is still only halfway grown out, but at least it's been making progress, or it was till last week.  After I got back from Orlando, I discovered that the corner or my toe was again getting red and irritated.  Because I'm an idiot who has apparently learned nothing, I attempted to "fix" it.  Big mistake.  In spite of attempted trims and repeated salt soaks, it continued to get worse and more infected.  I'd hoped to get it taken care of over the weekend with FMD because I'll be leaving Thursday to visit the girlie in NY and I wasn't particularly thrilled with the idea of hobbling all over the Atlanta-freakin'-airport, which is roughly the size of a small country.  Unfortunately, the FMD was inconveniently unavailable before today.  And, knowing that there was a fair chance of his referring me to a podiatrist anyway, I went ahead and sucked it up and made an appointment.  As it turned out, I could only get an appointment for today anyway because the podiatrist "does not see patients on Mondays and Fridays."  I almost canceled so I could go back to the FMD, but I am attempting (moderately successfully) to behave like a grownup.

Except I'm not a grownup, not really, and certainly not when it comes to medical procedures.  Nevertheless, this morning I dragged myself out of bed and drove to Dr. Earnest's office for the labwork, berating myself for going late because I was, yet again, going to miss my precious Panera's breakfast.  I sat waiting for 10-15 minutes to be called back, though the blood draw itself only took about 5 minutes.  I was greeted at the door by some random nurse, for which I was grateful since it meant that I would not be sitting and glaring balefully at Nurse Stupid while waiting for her to stab me with her syringe.  Not that it mattered, because the nurse I got still managed to give me one of the most painful sap taps I've ever had and for me, that's saying something.  Mercifully she did it in one stick, but it took her a while to find a vein; when she did, it was near the bottom of my elbow pit in the soft, vulnerable flesh most likely to rub up against things for the rest of the day, rather than in the traditional center of the elbow pit or even on the top side where I'd gotten my IV for my appendectomy.  I liked it there...much less jostling about.  Once she'd found the vein in question and plumped it up to her satisfaction, she tightened the elastic strap on my bicep and then jabbed me violently with the needle as thought it were a tiny little epee she and was trying to win a gold medal in the Olympic fencing finals.  I managed to keep the punctured arm still, but the rest of my body writhed in pain while tears stung my eyes.  "Are you okay?"  Yeah.  I'm peachy, thanks for asking.  Eventually she removed the little vampire fang and had me hold a gauze pad in place while she tore off a bit of (thankfully) paper tape.  Yay!  No contact blisters from the tape!!  She said the worst was over (she lied) and to remove the tape in five minutes, then I was free to go.  At 10:30.  When Panera ruthlessly starts refusing to serve sandwiches with eggs in them.  I cried like a little girl all the way home because the injection site was still burning like a mofo.  When I got home I removed the gauze, which was soaked in blood, presumably because of her somewhat inept assault on my arm.  The wound started bruising in less than 15 minutes.  Two hours from now I'm gonna look like a junkie.

O+, anyone?

After my non-Panera lunch, I headed over to the podiatrist to let him lop off my nail.  Since the man is  not FMD and since I've never met him I was understandably tense, my nerves already frayed from the earlier assault on my person, which only served to make me dread additional hypodermics in the extreme.  The pleasant young man I spoke to yesterday checked me in and took me back to a room where he and the nurse were ecstatic to learn that I have never smoked.  Doesn't mean I'm still not gonna die of lung cancer, because that's just how my life seems to operate.  I reiterated that I am a colossol pansy/wuss/coward regarding needles and asked them if they knew that redheads required an average of 20% more anesthetic to be sufficiently numbed, etc.  They did not know this and were fascinated with the possibility.  This did not bode well.

The young man left the room and the nurse told me to get in the chair and then promptly plonked down the loaded hypodermic on the table right in front of me.  Now call me cynical, but it seems to me that if my patient were already twitchy and had just professed both vehemently and volubly to having a fear of needles,
I might consider it a very bad idea to present the object of said phobia in living technicolor inches from the patient's face where it could scream things like "Look at me!!  I'm sharp!!  I'm going to cleave your flesh in two!!  Stabby, stabby, stabby!!  Pointy, pointy, pointy!!!  And I'm NOT going into anything soft and fleshy which might absorb the shock!  Instead, I'm going to jam into muscles and tendons just because I CAN.  Sucks to be YOU right now, doesn't it?!?!?!?"  Stupid needles.  Never know when to shut the hell up.  I told her I wanted the freeze spray like the FMD had used.  She tried to talk me out of it, saying it hurt more than the shots.  Liar.  She gave up, leaving me alone to contemplate the harbinger of pain sitting before me with my highly overactive imagination.  For 15 minutes.  Also a very bad idea. 

By the time the doctor came in, I had tears rolling down my eyes and was jumpy and scared shitless.  The doctor came in, too one look at me and said, "You look scared, Mary."  Incidentally, I find the doctor's name endlessly entertainting; he appears to be of Middle Eastern descent and every time I see his name I want to pronounce it "Knick-knacks," so that's what we're gonna call him today.  Anyway, Dr. KnickKnacks says "Mary" in a very interesting way.  Seems not only is he from whatever Middle Eastern country, he studied medicine in Cardiff, Wales and then spent many years working in New York.  So his accent is quite unique, and when he says "Mary," there is an almost audible pause between the a and the r, making is sound sort of like "Mehrhie."  No doubt I would have enjoyed this more (language and dialect nerd that I am) had I not been ready to rocket past him and out of the room.

I informed him that I was indeed scared and started babbling incoherently about hating needles and how I didn't know him and he was going to hurt me and how no one ever gave me enough anesthetic at first and how I hate needles (again), etc.  He asked me what had happened to give me such a bad experience and I babbled some more.  Then he asked what had happened and I explained the whole broken toe and jacked nail and infection in January, etc.  He asked if FMD had hurt me and that's why I was so upset.  I told him "No, I love FMD--he's my hero because he didn't hurt me."  I told him that FMD had taken it slow and that any time I felt pain, he'd jacked up the anesthetic.  To his credit, Dr. Knickknacks actually paid attention--mostly--telling me he would never hurt me "on purpose."  He did use the freeze spray on me and then inserted the first needle.  This went fine until the medicine started to burn like fire ants inside my skin.  Next he did the second shot, just like FMD had done, again using the freeze spray first.  Then he left to tend other patients while I got sufficiently numbed up, but not before asking me first if I wanted a magazine or my phone "to play with" while I waited.

Fifteen or so minutes later he came back to start the procedure.  He scrubbed down my toe with betadine (my first two toes are still yellow) and then started started squeezing out all the trapped pus (tasty, right?). Which I felt.  There wasn't as much pain as there would have been with no anesthetic, but I still felt significant discomfort and when he started to cut, I kept jerking my foot away.  So he asked if I needed more anesthetic.  I tried to say no, but he replied, "It's okay if you need more...we aren't cheap here."  That made me laugh a little, so I said yes and he left to get more anesthetic.

After shooting me up again, he got back to work, asking me questions all the while in a blatant attempt to distract me.  He asked all the usual small talk sorts of questions:  Are you from here?  Where do you work?  Why do you live here if you aren't from here?  And of course he asked about my daughter, and how old she was, affecting surprise that I had a kid that old and commented that I'd clearly "started early."  I don't call "27" early, but whatever, dude.  Then he asked if I had more kids.  I told him no.  "Why did you stop?  Did you not want more??"  Thanks, dude.  Appreciate that.  Thanks for reminding me of our secondary infertility.  "I didn't 'stop.'"  "OH.  So you do like kids then?  That's good."  WTF, dude? 

Aside from that little bit of  "mind your own effing business," he seemed like a nice enough guy; more importantly, he didn't seem at all put out by my enormous wussery.  Afterwards, he asked if I wanted to take the hangnail home.  "Not particularly."  Then he asked if I wanted to see it, so I answered "Sure."  What the heck, right?  He'd already told me that when the nail root is damaged, such as when one stupidly drops nightstands on one's toe, the nail eventually starts growing back, but it doesn't grow back straight like you'd expect.  Instead, it grows back up AND out sideways.  Even so, I was surprised to see how wide the sliver of nail was.  It was easily twice as wide as the visible nail growing out from the last hangnail-ectomy, half of which had been imbedded in my skin.   So it seems FMD was right.  Even though he would likely have been a little gentler or perhaps less scary since I already knew him, ultimately I'd have ended up at a podiatrist anyway because this would continue happening every time my nail tried to grow out after the break.  At least this way I cut out the middle man, so to speak.  Dr. Knickknacks flushed out the infection and killed off that corner of my nail root so that sliver of nail can't grow anymore.  I was told that as the toe healed, my skin would fold over the damaged area and "hug" my nail.  I looked at him dubiously.  He said "That's what we call that."  Presumably this will make my nail perfectly normal again, if a little narrower than previously.  Whatever.  At this point, I'm just freaking over it all.

"Yello?  You called??"
(Infected feet are puffy feet.  Though that bag of popcorn I had at the
movie theater last night probably didn't help much...)

Surprisingly, he didn't give me any antibiotics.  He didn't seem to think I'd need them provided I follow the take home instructions exactly, which involve soaking my foot in a magic solution of epsom salts and betadine, torturing the open wound with peroxide, and keeping it wrapped and dry for two weeks.  Because that's gonna happen when I'm in New York for 4 days.  I can only imagine the looks TSA will give me when I try to carry a little brown bottle of suspect fluid and a bag of salt onto the plane.  Clearly, I'm gonna have to check a bag, which means there's a good chance all my clothes will end up stained yellow.

Oh, well.  It could be worse, I suppose.  I'm alive.  It isn't cancer.  It's just me behaving like Cardinal Wussington over some very minor surgery.  In fact, when I went the office to provide my copay, both the nurse and the nice young man said I'd done very well because "we couldn't hear you at all."  I found this rather disconcerting, but they informed me that they routinely had big, burly men in there screaming at the tops of their lungs like six-year-olds.  Suddenly blubbering doesn't seem so horrible.  Also?  Best part?  The first line of the instruction sheet reads "Okay, you've had enough excitement for one day.  Go home and stay off your feet."

I left, intending to acquire my betadine and additional salts at CVS and then lunch at Outback since I'd missed Panera's.  Except I forgot that Outback doesn't start serving till 4 pm.  Sigh.  This is why I doubled up the appointments...I knew it was going to be a sucky day all 'round.  On the way home my car's thermometer read 104 degrees, but as I neared my house, I saw a storm coming; by the time I was home the temperature outside had dropped nearly 20 degrees and I pulled into my garage just before rain started thundering down.  Thank heavens for small favors.  And now I sit typing this, with my arm burning from the puncture site and the scratch next to it (apparently the nurse earlier doesn't know how to do smooth jabs), as well as from a point a couple of inches past the wound where the needle would have stopped inside the vein.  Because yeah, I am THAT sensitive.  My toe is still blissfully numb, though I felt a couple of twinges a moment ago, so that's not gonna last much longer.  Hopefully it will at least hold out till I can do a quick solo practice for my choral group's show and get back home where I can sit snug in my jammies while my various body parts shoot little jolts of stinging pain at regular intervals and sulk over this one significant drawback to being a ginger.

EDITED TO ADD:

Finally got blood test results back from Dr. Earnest's office (after they lost them for a while)--turns out my cholesterol is actually good and my blood sugar, though high, is in normal range.  Yay!

This is my arm maybe 36 hours after the blood draw.  Yay, crappy needle sticks!
(Three weeks later, there was still the faint shadow of a bruise.)

House of Pain

Not to sound macabre at all, but I hope one day I am fortunate enough to follow my mother-in-law's example and drop dead on the spot from a massive coronary or giant aneurysm or whatever it was she had, because if I get cancer (which seems highly probable after spending 18 years in a household full of smokers), I am screwed.  And not just because I have cancer.  The thing is, I hate needles.  Hate them.  As in "get the hell  away from me with that pointy metal spike, you MoFo!"  I always have.

I used to think it was just a "thing"; I mean, lots of people have needle phobia.  The grand irony is that I am a seamstress and play with needles and pins all the time, frequently stabbing myself with them as well.  Perhaps the difference is that I (theoretically) have control over my sharp pointy objects.  Also, they don't tend to penetrate as far into my flesh as when someone else is wielding them.  Regardless, I hate going to doctors and dentists because they inevitably hurt me (a lot), even when it's for my own good.  It wasn't till recently that I discovered this may be--in part--a side effect of spinning the genetic lottery and coming up with the MC1R recessive gene on chromosome 16.  In other words, red hair.  I've always heard that redheads tend to have increased pain sensitivity and certainly I do as well, though only for specific types of pain.  For example, while it still hurts me, I can generally handle blunt force (like walking into doorways, walls, people, lamp posts, etc) reasonably well.  I once walked around for weeks with an abscessed tooth and didn't know it until the dentist showed me the x-rays.  And that doesn't even count my walking around for 3-4 days with appendicitis, because it was only "a little distracting."  What I don't handle particularly well are instances in which my hull integrity is breached, such as by knives, needles, etc.  My skin has always reacted rather badly to such things, so I always assumed it was because I was so fair-skinned.  Recent studies like here and here explain that having not one but two copies of the MC1R gene not only gives us our red hair but, according to Pincott's article, causes receptors in our nervous system modulate pain more intensely.  At least that's the finding of one Edwin Liem of the University of Louisville, who further believes that the gene also affects hormones which then additionally stimulate pain receptors.  Also we bruise more easily (duh).
Cool.  Suddenly I'm finding my gingatude slightly less awesome.

Recent studies have also shown that redheads are more difficult to anesthetize, requiring 20-25% more general and local anesthesia than people of other hair colors, which may also contribute to why we are more than twice as likely as others to avoid dental care.  I know I am.  Going to the dentist when I was a kid was pretty freakin' traumatic.  At one point in my life I managed to avoid going to the dentist for 7 years.  I go regularly now, but it's still a stressful endeavor for me so I always have to find practitioners who claim to "cater to cowards."  Too bad all these studies weren't around when I was a kid and being tortured by brutal hygienists with little or no anesthesia; dental visits might have been much less horrific for me.  And I can definitely vouch for the "more anesthesia" thing as well; just before I got my epidural during labor I was told that I would only feel the first needle, which would numb the area so I didn't feel anything afterwards.  They were wrong.  I felt the first needle.  I felt the second.  I felt the third.  I felt them slide the last needle out of my back and off the tubing.  I had to be held down my both my husband and a nurse in order to keep me still enough to complete the procedure because I was sobbing so violently from the pain.  I'm starting to think that all redheads just need to come standard with medic-alert bracelets that read "Please jack me up with enough anesthesia to fell a rhino."

Anyway, all this is a precursor to explain the day of pain today which I've been dreading.  Last month I was supposed to go and have blood drawn for some routine labwork; some 5+ weeks later I finally forced myself back to the doctor's office.  I made every excuse I could to drag my feet, the most common being that since I slept too late (they suggested coming in at 8 am so I could break my fast sooner--I don't do early anymore) I was too hungry and it wasn't worth the bother.  I also told myself that if I got up and went at 8 am I could reward myself with breakfast at Panera's (because apparently I treat myself like a dog--"good, Ginger...GOOD Ginger!").  So naturally, if I couldn't get up and to the doctor's in time to be back at Panera's by 10:30 before they stopped serving breakfast, there was likewise no point in going if I was going to miss my lovely, lovely little power sandwich.  And of course the test was routine, so there was no rush.  Justification much, Ginger?

I decided to go ahead and force myself to go to the doctor's office today since I already had an appointment to see a podiatrist so I could have my big toe chopped off.  Okay, not really, but that's how it's going to feel.  My poor, pitiful big toe has suffered much in the past year.  The day before I went to Orlando with my friend, I stopped by a nail salon for a much-needed mani-pedi.  Fatal mistake.  On the plus side, the technician trimmed off the very last bit of damaged toenail that was originally traumatized by last year's break.  So finally, I have a relatively smooth, flat toenail of a normal width and not a mutant thickened one.  Only took a year...go me.  Of course, the sliver of toenail that the FMD removed in January because of my epic hangnail and infection is still only halfway grown out, but at least it's been making progress, or it was till last week.  After I got back from Orlando, I discovered that the corner or my toe was again getting red and irritated.  Because I'm an idiot who has apparently learned nothing, I attempted to "fix" it.  Big mistake.  In spite of attempted trims and repeated salt soaks, it continued to get worse and more infected.  I'd hoped to get it taken care of over the weekend with FMD because I'll be leaving Thursday to visit the girlie in NY and I wasn't particularly thrilled with the idea of hobbling all over the Atlanta-freakin'-airport, which is roughly the size of a small country.  Unfortunately, the FMD was inconveniently unavailable before today.  And, knowing that there was a fair chance of his referring me to a podiatrist anyway, I went ahead and sucked it up and made an appointment.  As it turned out, I could only get an appointment for today anyway because the podiatrist "does not see patients on Mondays and Fridays."  I almost canceled so I could go back to the FMD, but I am attempting (moderately successfully) to behave like a grownup.

Except I'm not a grownup, not really, and certainly not when it comes to medical procedures.  Nevertheless, this morning I dragged myself out of bed and drove to Dr. Earnest's office for the labwork, berating myself for going late because I was, yet again, going to miss my precious Panera's breakfast.  I sat waiting for 10-15 minutes to be called back, though the blood draw itself only took about 5 minutes.  I was greeted at the door by some random nurse, for which I was grateful since it meant that I would not be sitting and glaring balefully at Nurse Stupid while waiting for her to stab me with her syringe.  Not that it mattered, because the nurse I got still managed to give me one of the most painful sap taps I've ever had and for me, that's saying something.  Mercifully she did it in one stick, but it took her a while to find a vein; when she did, it was near the bottom of my elbow pit in the soft, vulnerable flesh most likely to rub up against things for the rest of the day, rather than in the traditional center of the elbow pit or even on the top side where I'd gotten my IV for my appendectomy.  I liked it there...much less jostling about.  Once she'd found the vein in question and plumped it up to her satisfaction, she tightened the elastic strap on my bicep and then jabbed me violently with the needle as thought it were a tiny little epee she and was trying to win a gold medal in the Olympic fencing finals.  I managed to keep the punctured arm still, but the rest of my body writhed in pain while tears stung my eyes.  "Are you okay?"  Yeah.  I'm peachy, thanks for asking.  Eventually she removed the little vampire fang and had me hold a gauze pad in place while she tore off a bit of (thankfully) paper tape.  Yay!  No contact blisters from the tape!!  She said the worst was over (she lied) and to remove the tape in five minutes, then I was free to go.  At 10:30.  When Panera ruthlessly starts refusing to serve sandwiches with eggs in them.  I cried like a little girl all the way home because the injection site was still burning like a mofo.  When I got home I removed the gauze, which was soaked in blood, presumably because of her somewhat inept assault on my arm.  The wound started bruising in less than 15 minutes.  Two hours from now I'm gonna look like a junkie.

O+, anyone?

After my non-Panera lunch, I headed over to the podiatrist to let him lop off my nail.  Since the man is  not FMD and since I've never met him I was understandably tense, my nerves already frayed from the earlier assault on my person, which only served to make me dread additional hypodermics in the extreme.  The pleasant young man I spoke to yesterday checked me in and took me back to a room where he and the nurse were ecstatic to learn that I have never smoked.  Doesn't mean I'm still not gonna die of lung cancer, because that's just how my life seems to operate.  I reiterated that I am a colossol pansy/wuss/coward regarding needles and asked them if they knew that redheads required an average of 20% more anesthetic to be sufficiently numbed, etc.  They did not know this and were fascinated with the possibility.  This did not bode well.

The young man left the room and the nurse told me to get in the chair and then promptly plonked down the loaded hypodermic on the table right in front of me.  Now call me cynical, but it seems to me that if my patient were already twitchy and had just professed both vehemently and volubly to having a fear of needles,
I might consider it a very bad idea to present the object of said phobia in living technicolor inches from the patient's face where it could scream things like "Look at me!!  I'm sharp!!  I'm going to cleave your flesh in two!!  Stabby, stabby, stabby!!  Pointy, pointy, pointy!!!  And I'm NOT going into anything soft and fleshy which might absorb the shock!  Instead, I'm going to jam into muscles and tendons just because I CAN.  Sucks to be YOU right now, doesn't it?!?!?!?"  Stupid needles.  Never know when to shut the hell up.  I told her I wanted the freeze spray like the FMD had used.  She tried to talk me out of it, saying it hurt more than the shots.  Liar.  She gave up, leaving me alone to contemplate the harbinger of pain sitting before me with my highly overactive imagination.  For 15 minutes.  Also a very bad idea. 

By the time the doctor came in, I had tears rolling down my eyes and was jumpy and scared shitless.  The doctor came in, too one look at me and said, "You look scared, Mary."  Incidentally, I find the doctor's name endlessly entertainting; he appears to be of Middle Eastern descent and every time I see his name I want to pronounce it "Knick-knacks," so that's what we're gonna call him today.  Anyway, Dr. KnickKnacks says "Mary" in a very interesting way.  Seems not only is he from whatever Middle Eastern country, he studied medicine in Cardiff, Wales and then spent many years working in New York.  So his accent is quite unique, and when he says "Mary," there is an almost audible pause between the a and the r, making is sound sort of like "Mehrhie."  No doubt I would have enjoyed this more (language and dialect nerd that I am) had I not been ready to rocket past him and out of the room.

I informed him that I was indeed scared and started babbling incoherently about hating needles and how I didn't know him and he was going to hurt me and how no one ever gave me enough anesthetic at first and how I hate needles (again), etc.  He asked me what had happened to give me such a bad experience and I babbled some more.  Then he asked what had happened and I explained the whole broken toe and jacked nail and infection in January, etc.  He asked if FMD had hurt me and that's why I was so upset.  I told him "No, I love FMD--he's my hero because he didn't hurt me."  I told him that FMD had taken it slow and that any time I felt pain, he'd jacked up the anesthetic.  To his credit, Dr. Knickknacks actually paid attention--mostly--telling me he would never hurt me "on purpose."  He did use the freeze spray on me and then inserted the first needle.  This went fine until the medicine started to burn like fire ants inside my skin.  Next he did the second shot, just like FMD had done, again using the freeze spray first.  Then he left to tend other patients while I got sufficiently numbed up, but not before asking me first if I wanted a magazine or my phone "to play with" while I waited.

Fifteen or so minutes later he came back to start the procedure.  He scrubbed down my toe with betadine (my first two toes are still yellow) and then started started squeezing out all the trapped pus (tasty, right?). Which I felt.  There wasn't as much pain as there would have been with no anesthetic, but I still felt significant discomfort and when he started to cut, I kept jerking my foot away.  So he asked if I needed more anesthetic.  I tried to say no, but he replied, "It's okay if you need more...we aren't cheap here."  That made me laugh a little, so I said yes and he left to get more anesthetic.

After shooting me up again, he got back to work, asking me questions all the while in a blatant attempt to distract me.  He asked all the usual small talk sorts of questions:  Are you from here?  Where do you work?  Why do you live here if you aren't from here?  And of course he asked about my daughter, and how old she was, affecting surprise that I had a kid that old and commented that I'd clearly "started early."  I don't call "27" early, but whatever, dude.  Then he asked if I had more kids.  I told him no.  "Why did you stop?  Did you not want more??"  Thanks, dude.  Appreciate that.  Thanks for reminding me of our secondary infertility.  "I didn't 'stop.'"  "OH.  So you do like kids then?  That's good."  WTF, dude? 

Aside from that little bit of  "mind your own effing business," he seemed like a nice enough guy; more importantly, he didn't seem at all put out by my enormous wussery.  Afterwards, he asked if I wanted to take the hangnail home.  "Not particularly."  Then he asked if I wanted to see it, so I answered "Sure."  What the heck, right?  He'd already told me that when the nail root is damaged, such as when one stupidly drops nightstands on one's toe, the nail eventually starts growing back, but it doesn't grow back straight like you'd expect.  Instead, it grows back up AND out sideways.  Even so, I was surprised to see how wide the sliver of nail was.  It was easily twice as wide as the visible nail growing out from the last hangnail-ectomy, half of which had been imbedded in my skin.   So it seems FMD was right.  Even though he would likely have been a little gentler or perhaps less scary since I already knew him, ultimately I'd have ended up at a podiatrist anyway because this would continue happening every time my nail tried to grow out after the break.  At least this way I cut out the middle man, so to speak.  Dr. Knickknacks flushed out the infection and killed off that corner of my nail root so that sliver of nail can't grow anymore.  I was told that as the toe healed, my skin would fold over the damaged area and "hug" my nail.  I looked at him dubiously.  He said "That's what we call that."  Presumably this will make my nail perfectly normal again, if a little narrower than previously.  Whatever.  At this point, I'm just freaking over it all.

"Yello?  You called??"
(Infected feet are puffy feet.  Though that bag of popcorn I had at the
movie theater last night probably didn't help much...)

Surprisingly, he didn't give me any antibiotics.  He didn't seem to think I'd need them provided I follow the take home instructions exactly, which involve soaking my foot in a magic solution of epsom salts and betadine, torturing the open wound with peroxide, and keeping it wrapped and dry for two weeks.  Because that's gonna happen when I'm in New York for 4 days.  I can only imagine the looks TSA will give me when I try to carry a little brown bottle of suspect fluid and a bag of salt onto the plane.  Clearly, I'm gonna have to check a bag, which means there's a good chance all my clothes will end up stained yellow.

Oh, well.  It could be worse, I suppose.  I'm alive.  It isn't cancer.  It's just me behaving like Cardinal Wussington over some very minor surgery.  In fact, when I went the office to provide my copay, both the nurse and the nice young man said I'd done very well because "we couldn't hear you at all."  I found this rather disconcerting, but they informed me that they routinely had big, burly men in there screaming at the tops of their lungs like six-year-olds.  Suddenly blubbering doesn't seem so horrible.  Also?  Best part?  The first line of the instruction sheet reads "Okay, you've had enough excitement for one day.  Go home and stay off your feet."

I left, intending to acquire my betadine and additional salts at CVS and then lunch at Outback since I'd missed Panera's.  Except I forgot that Outback doesn't start serving till 4 pm.  Sigh.  This is why I doubled up the appointments...I knew it was going to be a sucky day all 'round.  On the way home my car's thermometer read 104 degrees, but as I neared my house, I saw a storm coming; by the time I was home the temperature outside had dropped nearly 20 degrees and I pulled into my garage just before rain started thundering down.  Thank heavens for small favors.  And now I sit typing this, with my arm burning from the puncture site and the scratch next to it (apparently the nurse earlier doesn't know how to do smooth jabs), as well as from a point a couple of inches past the wound where the needle would have stopped inside the vein.  Because yeah, I am THAT sensitive.  My toe is still blissfully numb, though I felt a couple of twinges a moment ago, so that's not gonna last much longer.  Hopefully it will at least hold out till I can do a quick solo practice for my choral group's show and get back home where I can sit snug in my jammies while my various body parts shoot little jolts of stinging pain at regular intervals and sulk over this one significant drawback to being a ginger.

EDITED TO ADD:

Finally got blood test results back from Dr. Earnest's office (after they lost them for a while)--turns out my cholesterol is actually good and my blood sugar, though high, is in normal range.  Yay!

This is my arm maybe 36 hours after the blood draw.  Yay, crappy needle sticks!
(Three weeks later, there was still the faint shadow of a bruise.)

Fun with Nurse Insert-Name-Here

Most of you know that I had a renal ultrasound Tuesday morning.  While there, I asked the technician when my doctor would get the results; I was told within 24-48 hours.  On a whim, I called the doctor's office just after lunch to make sure they'd call me after getting the results since they've so far shown a marked indifference about telling me much of anything.  Nurse Vacuous said that the doctor had to "sign off" on the report, after which she could call me with the results, probably late afternoon or Wednesday morning.   Okay.  I should have results by Wednesday morning.  I figured that meant I'd probably get them by February 15th.  Also, what does "the doctor has to sign off" mean, exactly?  Makes it sound like they are writing me off, which they seem to have largely done already.

So I waited.

No calls Tuesday evening.  I even kept my ringer turned on and up so I wouldn't miss any calls.

And then I waited some more.

All day Wednesday I waited.  Nothing.

Thursday morning I called and was sent to Nurse Vapid's voicemail, where I left a message.  Then the girlie and I headed off to Atlanta for some shopping and good, old-fashioned girl-bonding time.  While eating an early dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (yum!), I called Dr. Earnest's office once again and after being kept on hold for 10-15 minutes was finally put through to Nurse Bitchy.  She didn't apologize for never having called me back.  Then she told me that I had either a mass or a cyst.  Get the f*ck out of town--really???  Okay, now tell me something I don't already know. 

"We compared it to the CT results which we don't have the software to read, so we used our magic guessing powers and it hasn't grown any."

Nurse Attitude problem next informed me that the doctor was trying to decide between making me do another CT scan or an MRI.  Correct me if I'm wrong here, people, but wasn't a CT scan what got all this insanity started IN THE FIRST PLACE?  What could possibly make you think that a new one is going to tell you anything different than the first one if you can't even get any useful information off either it or the ultrasound?  Hello???

"Well, she's "leaning" towards an MRI.  Can you do a CT or an MRI?  Because it couldn't be an open MRI..."

"Well, yes, Nurse Head-Up-Ass, I can, in fact, do a CT or MRI, considering I've just done one."

"Do you mind going to the hospital for an MRI?"

"Actually, yes, I do...I'd rather go to the diagnostic center."

"But it would be much easier for us if you went back to the hospital because they already have your other test results because clearly we are not competent enough to have them sent to us from another location."

"Well, God knows I want to make all this nonsense easier on you, Nurse Needs-to-be-Slapped, but it's three times cheaper at the Diagnostic center."

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, duh, Nurse Can't-Comprehend-Basic-Math; while I do have insurance, and while the entirely pointless ultrasound you just ordered blew out my deductible, there's still the little matter of my CO-PAY on all these outrageously expensive tests and, surprisingly, the co-pay on a $15,000 test is noticeably bigger than one on a $5000 test.  Shocking, I know..."

"Um, okay...I'll talk to the doctor and see what she wants to do and call you back with your appointment..."

Needless to say, I have heard absolutely nothing since this conversation on Thursday afternoon.  I have still not heard a solitary word from Dr. Earnest herself.  Not only is Dr. Earnest totally fired the second I get this all sorted out, but I'm thinking it might be time for a visit to a specialist, preferably one who does not have his head lodged firmly up his keester.

I am so over this.  Why is medical competence so difficult to find these days?  Or is it just me?

Fun with Nurse Insert-Name-Here

Most of you know that I had a renal ultrasound Tuesday morning.  While there, I asked the technician when my doctor would get the results; I was told within 24-48 hours.  On a whim, I called the doctor's office just after lunch to make sure they'd call me after getting the results since they've so far shown a marked indifference about telling me much of anything.  Nurse Vacuous said that the doctor had to "sign off" on the report, after which she could call me with the results, probably late afternoon or Wednesday morning.   Okay.  I should have results by Wednesday morning.  I figured that meant I'd probably get them by February 15th.  Also, what does "the doctor has to sign off" mean, exactly?  Makes it sound like they are writing me off, which they seem to have largely done already.

So I waited.

No calls Tuesday evening.  I even kept my ringer turned on and up so I wouldn't miss any calls.

And then I waited some more.

All day Wednesday I waited.  Nothing.

Thursday morning I called and was sent to Nurse Vapid's voicemail, where I left a message.  Then the girlie and I headed off to Atlanta for some shopping and good, old-fashioned girl-bonding time.  While eating an early dinner at the Cheesecake Factory (yum!), I called Dr. Earnest's office once again and after being kept on hold for 10-15 minutes was finally put through to Nurse Bitchy.  She didn't apologize for never having called me back.  Then she told me that I had either a mass or a cyst.  Get the f*ck out of town--really???  Okay, now tell me something I don't already know. 

"We compared it to the CT results which we don't have the software to read, so we used our magic guessing powers and it hasn't grown any."

Nurse Attitude problem next informed me that the doctor was trying to decide between making me do another CT scan or an MRI.  Correct me if I'm wrong here, people, but wasn't a CT scan what got all this insanity started IN THE FIRST PLACE?  What could possibly make you think that a new one is going to tell you anything different than the first one if you can't even get any useful information off either it or the ultrasound?  Hello???

"Well, she's "leaning" towards an MRI.  Can you do a CT or an MRI?  Because it couldn't be an open MRI..."

"Well, yes, Nurse Head-Up-Ass, I can, in fact, do a CT or MRI, considering I've just done one."

"Do you mind going to the hospital for an MRI?"

"Actually, yes, I do...I'd rather go to the diagnostic center."

"But it would be much easier for us if you went back to the hospital because they already have your other test results because clearly we are not competent enough to have them sent to us from another location."

"Well, God knows I want to make all this nonsense easier on you, Nurse Needs-to-be-Slapped, but it's three times cheaper at the Diagnostic center."

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, duh, Nurse Can't-Comprehend-Basic-Math; while I do have insurance, and while the entirely pointless ultrasound you just ordered blew out my deductible, there's still the little matter of my CO-PAY on all these outrageously expensive tests and, surprisingly, the co-pay on a $15,000 test is noticeably bigger than one on a $5000 test.  Shocking, I know..."

"Um, okay...I'll talk to the doctor and see what she wants to do and call you back with your appointment..."

Needless to say, I have heard absolutely nothing since this conversation on Thursday afternoon.  I have still not heard a solitary word from Dr. Earnest herself.  Not only is Dr. Earnest totally fired the second I get this all sorted out, but I'm thinking it might be time for a visit to a specialist, preferably one who does not have his head lodged firmly up his keester.

I am so over this.  Why is medical competence so difficult to find these days?  Or is it just me?

Lab Techs and Kidneys and Daleks, Oh, My!

This morning I had my appointment for the renal ultrasound that Dr. Earnest's office so helpfully scheduled without bothering to inform me of either it or the need for it in advance of giving me the appointment.  For those of you just joining in, I had an appendectomy 4 days before Thanksgiving last November.  I was given a CT scan in a local hospital to confirm the diagnosis, after which the radiologist flagged a potential "renal mass" in my left kidney.  The scan results were then faxed on November 28th to my new GP, who then decided to wait until January 4th to order a follow-up ultrasound.  It's been special.  Dr. Earnest and her office staff are on my list of people to hit with sticks should I ever decide to become a SCA fighter like my daughter.

Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed around 8 am to go take a shower before my appointment, after having already spent a half an hour hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock in a Herculean effort to pretend I didn't have to leave my warm and cozy bed.  As I passed by the front window, I noticed a fog outside so thick that I couldn't even see the street.  Suddenly I had visions of Heathcliff materializing from the foggy moors, ultrasound gel and scanner in hand.  If I'd had any doubts about the dubious merits of being conscious (as opposed to awake) that early in the morning, they were rapidly squashed by the specter of Radiology Heathcliff (New!  By Mattel!!  Only $19.95!!!) in all his foggy glory.

I trudged to the bathroom to begin my shower, shaking off this unfortunate vision as I went.  Once vaguely revived by the warm water, I got out, re-bandaged my now disgusting-looking toe, and got dressed.  I had a few extra minutes before leaving, since I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything, so I threw the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, packed up my morning meds, and headed out the door.

The outpatient diagnostic center to which I was sent was actually not far from my house, which made a nice change from all the times over the last 12 months that I've been summarily shipped clear across town.  I arrived almost on time, only to discover that the radiologist was delayed by a hospital call.  While waiting, I was checked in by a woman wearing enough scent to suffocate a herd of buffalo.  She informed me that it was a new year--wait...REALLY???  Thanks for pointing that out, Eau de Bronchitis--and that I would therefore have to meet my $300 deductible before the insurance would start kicking in their subsequent 90%.  Personally, I think this is medical code for "your ultrasound will cost approximately $12,000--just for the squeezy gel--so you're getting off lucky with paying it all up front.  Will that be cash, check or charge?"  Heck, that personal ultrasound machine for my wrist was over $4500, just by itself.  How foolish of me to think I'd go in and only have to fork over a copay rather than enough to buy a new set of tires for my car.  Typical.  I ended up giving her half of it; they can bloody well bill me for the rest, since I'll still have to give up that extra 10% anyway.  On the plus side, it's a mere 10 days into 2012 and my deductible's already been met.  On the down side, given the way my last year went, it's probably not a great idea to give me carte blanche to break or damage whatever body part I want just because my deductible's been paid for the whole year.  Hello, Appendectomy--why did you have to wait till freaking November??  I should have been able to get some more mileage out of you!

After signing over my firstborn half of the deductible, Ms. Malodorous snapped on a hospital bracelet (Seriously?  You're gonna tag me for a 30-minute test??) and sent me off to wait for the radiologist.  I only waited for a couple of minutes before she called me in and told me to hike my shirt up to my bra and climb on the table, after which she began to stuff washcloths under my bra and over the waistband of my jeans, presumably to protect my clothing from the ultrasound gel.  The weird part was that she did this on my right side, as opposed to the left which was the one originally flagged.  When questioned about this she said she was doing a renal "study" and so would do both kidneys.  Um, okaaaay.  Gotta get that basis for comparison, I suppose.

Next she squirted me with the gel, which was mercifully pre-warmed, and began the process of jamming in her handheld scanner hard enough to push a kidney out my navel.  She had me roll up on my side, put my arm over my head and hold my breath on and off while she continued to jab the scanner into my waist, back and ribs.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hold one's breath while being whammed near the diaphragm with a very hard hunk of plastic?  She kept saying "hold your breath...excellent...now another...stop breathing in through your mouth, you're putting too much air in your stomach...excellent..." over and over till I eventually learned that "excellent" was code for "you didn't screw it up so you're allowed to breath now."  She spent a surprisingly long time on the right kidney, far longer, in fact, than she ultimately did on the left unless I'm very much mistaken. This puzzled me, considering it was the left kidney that brought me in in the first place.

She cleaned me off and then had me flip over to do it all again on the left side.  I'm not sure why, but it was less uncomfortable this time; she seemed not to be jamming the scanner into my flesh as hard.  She also made me hold me breath for longer stretches on that side for some inexplicable reason.  I watched as she highlighted spots on the screen in red, typing something illegible from my viewing angle.  I commented on it, and she insisted it was no big deal because she'd done it on the other side as well.  "Um, I couldn't see you do it then.  "Exactly!"  Whatever, Radiology Lady.  Meanwhile, while all this was going on, she had Yanni blasting out of the speakers.  Better than rap, I suppose.  While lying there with my arm over my head listening to Yanni and reverse-hyperventilating, I noticed a sign near the sink demonstrating the use of the eyewash.  You know, like in a lab when you accidentally squirt toxic chemicals or uranium into your eye and have to run to the special fountain to wash out your eyes?  Anyway, as I stared at this sign, it struck me that the picture of the water shooting into the eyes looked just like an upside-down Dalek.  Obviously I need to get out more.

After she'd finished jabbing me and dribbling gel all over my left side, the radiologist again wiped off my skin then told me to lie on my back and pull my drawers down over my hips.  Apparently a "renal study" also included my bladder.  I slipped my jeans and undies down to just above my personal bits.  "Excellent."  This turned out to be perfectly pointless moments later when, despite my "excellent" placement, she stuffed a washcloth and her hand all the way down the front of my pants.  Um, exactly how far do you plan on shooting this gel, lady?  I guess she didn't get the washcloth straight enough to suit her, because next thing I know, she was jabbing her hand down my pants again to fix it.  Thank you, Radiology Lady, but I don't know you this well.  Next time you better damn well be buying me dinner first.

She recommenced with the jabbing, this time around my bladder, making me have to pee.  Fortunately the bladder "study" went much more expeditiously than did the kidney "studies," and she was done in maybe five minutes.  She wiped off the excess gel, then left me with a washcloth to finish the job.  What, now you choose a little discretion??  Give me a break.

I finished cleaning off, yanked my pants back up and got up off the table.  She said I was free to go and started to show me the door but I stopped her, saying, "Can I ask a really weird question?  Can I take a picture of your eyewash sign?"  She started to twitch.  "Um...I..." Okay, I was definitely hearing the wind-up for a "no."  "Well...Hippa...Um..."  I quickly added that I just wanted a picture of the eyewash sign, to which I then pointed.  Twitch.  "Well..."  I asked her if she'd ever seen Doctor Who.  "Yes!"  Ha--nerds with gadgets are clearly the same the world over.  I pointed out that it looked like an upside-down Dalek.  She turned her head, the lightbulb went off, and she exclaimed, "Oh!"  She even did the voice.  Then she flipped over all the exposed paperwork on her desk so privacy was maintained and told me to go ahead, saying she'd never noticed it before.  Then I pointed out that I'd been staring at it upside down for the last 15 minutes so it was kinda hard to miss.  She laughed and told me to have a good day.

Now I'm an eyewash.

And now I'm a Dalek.  "Irradiate...Irradiate...IRRADIATE!!!"

Before I walked out, I asked how long it would be before Dr. Earnest would receive the results.  She replied that it would probably be between 24-48 hours, which means that if Dr. Earnest's office remains consistent, they probably won't contact me with my results till February 26th.  So there you have it.  Now excuse me while I go find a bathroom.