My clutzy foot injury.

I'm a clutz. Nothing profound about that, it's just reality. Somedays are better than others, but when I have a 'bad' day, it's usually a doozy. You know, go big or go home. I 'kinda' live that motto.

Several months ago, I opened a cupboard and a pyrex bowl slid out. It shattered into a bazillion pieces which sort of shocked me considering it was on the bottom shelf of the floor cupboards - and it fell maybe 5" at the most. And I wouldn't even say it 'fell'. It mostly just 'slid' out. And hit my foot on the way. No big deal, it certainly didn't hurt at all. More than anything, I was irritated that it happened and the mess that it created (did I mention that it shattered into a bazillion pieces?! And that it scattered all across the kitchen and into the entry way?). I grabbed my handy dandy shop vac and started to suck up the pieces (shop vac is one of my most favourite 'gadgets' in this house). No big deal. I put my hand down to push myself up onto my feet. Except my hand slid out from under me. When I looked at it, there was a puddle of blood on the floor and obviously all over my hand. Damn. I'd cut my hand. I rinse off at the sink trying to assess the damage and to pull the glass out. Except there were no marks on my hand at all. Oddly enough, my next instinct was to feel my butt - to make sure that I hadn't poked myself in the arse. Phew! I didn't.

Then I noticed it.

My foot. The TOP of foot (only *I* can achieve this kind of injury). My sock was saturated with blood, and there was a pool surrounding my foot. I quickly realize that there is a sizable piece of glass still stuck IN my foot, twinkling in the light like a diamond (you know, body jewellery). I reach down, tug it out, and remove my sock. There is definitely a 'hole' in my foot (as well as my sock. A BRAND new pair I might add. I was definitely miffed at losing the socks). I get the peroxide and a pair of tweezers and dig around making sure I got all the glass out. It appears that I did, so I clean it Dettol (I'd make my mother-in-law proud knowing that I used that), bandaged it up, and carry on with the clean up. Over the course of the day I have to change that bandage numerous times. WAY more than I should have. By the next morning, when it's STILL oozing, I'm starting to think that maybe I should have had it stitched up, but . . . I have kids, a life and all sorts of things going on, and I just don't have time for that kind of thing. I just rebandaged it, and figured it would heal on it's own.

And it did. Eventually. It took weeks for it to stop tearing open, oozing and hurting (ironically, it didn't hurt when I did it, but 2 days later a bruise formed and it started to ache). But it did eventually heal up and I forgot all about it.

Until the end of November. Suddenly it hurt again. At first it was just when I wore shoes, but then it started hurting when I moved my foot. Upon investigation I notice a lump on the top of my foot. RIGHT where the scar is. I'm no medical professional, but I'm guessing that perhaps I DIDN'T get that piece of glass out. I ask my other half (like he's some kind of medical professional. And He's not. He's a teacher) what his thoughts are. He agrees that it's probably still in there, but that it will likely work it's way out. Sounded good enough for me. No medical intervention is always the right answer in my mind.

Except . . . it hurt more and more each passing day, and wearing shoes was incredibly painful. And since we were about to head into the winter months, I was pretty sure that I'd have to resort to wearing shoes and boots often. So, I made an appointment for myself. At that appointment, they squeezed that lump like it was a zit. OUCH!!! The doctor could feel the glass in there, but it wasn't coming out. So, he froze it up right then and there in the office and 'dug' around. Except he couldn't 'find' it. He could feel it every so often, but as he dug, he couldn't 'get' it. In the end, he tore out a bunch of scar tissue (and insisted on dangling it in front of my face like I really wanted to know what it looked like. Yeah, GAG!), and said that he was 'hopeful' that it might just work it's way out. He said that in the event that it didn't come out, then just to call in and ask them to book me an outpatient procedure with him in January, but he didn't feel it would be necessary, he was REALLY confident that it would come out on it's own. That sounded good enough for me.

However, you know the saying I quoted at the beginning of this post, right? Go big or go home?! Yeah. It didn't come out on it's own.

Of course it didn't. Why would it? Murphy and I are like *THIS*, and nothing ever goes according to plan or expectation. I always have to be the exception. For everything.

As we sailed through the holidays, I noticed the scar healed up and definitely no glass coming out (believe me . . . I felt it a bazillion times a day in hopes that it would poke through). At the beginning of January, it was hurting again. Hurting A LOT.

SO . . . I called up the doctor and made an appointment. OK, so it wasn't quite that easy. First of all, I didn't dial the doctor himself, I had to get through his medical office Five-O (AKA his secretary). I had to dial over and over again over the course of 4 days to finally get through. (You basically have to make an appointment to make an appointment). I explained that I just needed to book an outpatient appointment. She declared that it wasn't up to ME to decide what I needed down. That I'd need to see the doctor in the office. Then she offered me an appointment more than 5 weeks out. I explained that I'd already been IN the office and that he'd dug around and told me to request an outpatient appointment. Again, she told me that I was NOT in any position to make a 'demand' such as that (as far as I know I wasn't demanding, but just asking . . . ). So . . . I just left it that maybe she could ASK him what his thoughts were. She quite snarkily (I'm sure that's not even a word, but it's fitting for this description) said that she wasn't my personal secretary (although I did point out that she was HIS personal secretary . . . yeah, it didn't help matters) and then declared that he was out of the office and she would get back to me on Monday.

However she didn't. Surprise!! I quite suspect it's because she was wrong. When I called on Wednesday to see what was going on, a different woman (obviously NOT part of the medical military - as this gal was super nice!) informed me that I was booked for February 1.

That's today.

As the weekend neared, I got myself a little bit worked up about this procedure I was about to undergo. By no means was it going to be anything major, but I'm not into all things medical. Give me enough time and something as simple as a blood draw can morph into some MAJOR event. Although I HATE it, I can tolerate (for their sake) when my kids get poked, prodded, cathetered, and stitched up. I guess it's that Momma Bear complex that I develop - because normally I can't stand the sight of blood or needles - but when it's for the kids, even though I want to vomit and cry along with them, I slap on a brave face and encourage them. A bit hypocritical perhaps, no? I think so because when it comes to all things medical for ME, I'm a class "A" pansy. Through and through. I was busy all weekend, so didn't give much thought to it all, until yesterday. I thought about it a lot. A WHOLE lot. Too much in fact. So much I sufficiently wigged myself out over it.

I didn't sleep well at all last night, and I admit it, I was hoping that the expected snowstorm for TONIGHT and TOMORROW would have started LAST night and that all elective procedures would be cancelled. It was indeed snowing, but really, how many days in the middle of winter does it NOT?! I got myself ready (I even shaved the little hairs off my toe, wasn't I kind?) and headed out. It seemed wrong, as I dropped my $4 into the parking machine, to think that I was paying money to go in and inflict pain on myself. I gathered up my magazine and my purse and headed in. I was registered and sitting in the waiting room by 8:20. My appointment was for 8:40. I was nervous. And I was hot. It was hot and humid in the outpatient clinic. And stinky. Oh so stinky . . . blech! One by one others got called in, but I sat and sat. At 8:40, my appointment time, a nurse came into the room. Instantly my tummy rumbled. Nervous poo. FANTASTIC. Just what I needed right then and there. She called out a name. But it wasn't mine. Another nurse walked in. Another pain ripped across my belly. She called out yet another name. I realized that I needed a washroom. I darted across the hall to the bathroom. Easy enough and convenient, right? Take care of business and no one would know but me.

Except I have performance anxiety in a public washroom. I always have. I can pee if I absolutely have to, but the other?! No way, no audience for that. Then I heard it. Rigt outside the bathroom door a nurse was calling MY name. The poop pretty much fell out of me right then. Yep - she literally scared the shit out of me. I got myself fixed up, washed up and out of there and followed her up the hall. As I entered the room I nearly fell over. The person in front of me obviously had some sort of 'burning' (cauterizing I suppose?) done. It stunk. REALLY bad. I felt sick. I nervously chatted with the nurse about a bunch of nothing.

Then the doctor walked in.

*GULP*

Again, he squeezed that little lump like it was a zit. It hurt. A LOT. He still felt that he could feel the glass, so figured it would be easy peasy to get it out. He loaded up the needle and froze my toe. First of all, have you EVER had a needle in your toe before? I might be a fat chick, but my toe is definitely not somewhere that I have an abundance of fat. It stings like a son of a you-know-what.

Then he started digging. And I started sweating heavily and feeling clammy.

For whatever reason, him and the nurse were giving me a play by play of what they were doing. I literally plugged my ears. I definitely had NO interest in knowing. I live in a blissful world of believing and trusting that they know what they doing. He dug for over 1/2 an hour and finally announced that he found a little piece of glass, all encapsulated in scar tissue (trust me, I saw it. He dangled it over my face to show me. Blech). A LOT of scar tissue, and some healthy tissue around it. He commented that my toe would be 'concave' now. Then he announced that there was still come glass in there. Of course there was. And that it was lodged hard and fast in the tendon. He tried to pull it, but said he didn't want to mess with it, for fear of destroying or damaging the tendon.

He wanted me to look at the glass lodged in my tendon. I did not.

He won. Next thing you know I'm sitting up looking at a gaping hole in my foot - at the exposed tendons and all sorts of yuck. He asked if I could see the glass. I just agreed and said I could, but the reality is, I couldn't. I couldn't get past the blood and gore. I laid back down and he stitched me up. With stitches that I need to go back and have removed. 10 days from now. You know, when I'm finally putting this traumatic experience behind me, I'll have to relive it all again. While sewing me back together, he commented that the odds of that glass in the tendon causing issues are slim to nil. So that means that I'll likely have to have my leg amputated in the near future. Because that's how I roll (remember . . . go big or go home).

I got my sock and boot back on and headed for the door. I was very hot, very clammy, very sweaty and just felt 'weird' as I walked up the hallway. I took the stairs up to the main level, passing a nurse who stopped in her tracks asking if I was OK. I continued walking, saying that I just needed to get outside. She turned around and followed me out. Just 10 feet shy of stepping out into the frigid cold air that would make me feel SO much better, I collapsed.

Yes. I passed out. The above mentioned nurse broke my fall, and suddenly her and another woman have me sitting on a bench offering me juice. And of course I had an audience . . . the 2 folks involved with a patient transfer service saw it happening and came running in as well. They walked me outside where instantly I felt better.

And freakin' embarrassed and humiliated.

They explained that this sort of thing happens all the time. Regardless of that, I'm still embarrassed that I'm just another stat. After reassuring and convincing the nurses that I'm perfectly fine, I hobbled out to the van and headed home.

The freezing has long since worn off, and I'm hopped up on advil, but it's all good. It's done. And hopefully this is the end of it.

Although . . . just a few short hours after the freezing came out, my darling Teen STEPPED on my foot. OUCH!!!!

And . . . for real . . . you KNOW that the piece embedded in my tendon will cause problems. The question is when.

And that my friends, will play out in the days to come I'm sure.

***Edit: And because I can . . . and because I have some morbid nursing and medical field friends, here are some up close and personal pictures of the offending 'boo boo'.


Pardon my ugly feet . . .




And just in case you didn't see it, here's a REALLY up close one. Yeah, I know, I need to wash it. I just don't want to touch it. YUCK!