Seven more doses of my antibiotic.
My lips have been burning . . . like they are really, really chapped and I have been out in the winter wind sans chapstick. I assume that it could be an allergic reaction of some sort, but have been assured that allergic reactions don't happen six days in. Or a fungal infection caused by my current lack of "good" bacteria. Yuck. Let's not think about that.
So lots of lip gloss and allegra have been getting me through. Actually, does feel like when you use that "lip plumper" stuff, which I don't . . . ever.
So a day and a half . . . and a month of "special" soap. Let's hope my lips don't fall off. This has been the best medical odyssey ever!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Nice Italian Boys Hiding in Their Houses Playing X-Box
When we get there, it is packed. A line out the door. On a Tuesday. What the hell? Are they giving out free food? And the people at the host stand don't seem to know what to do. Frozen like scared deer. "Oh MY GOD, what are we going to DO with all these PEOPLE??"
I am in line long enough for Princess to go to the restroom and for me to chat up the neighboring "mature" ladies. They liked my shoes. And as it turns out, they were giving out free food. It was a "buy an entree, get an entree free" night.
It was a wine tasting showcasing Michigan wines. I know, I know . . . but I've had some drinkable Michigan wines, I swear. None of those wines were showcased, however. And it was totally disorganized. And the people surrounding us seemed to be more about the food, which wasn't all that great. I poured out four of the six wines I sampled . . . poured out, didn't drink them. And the bartenders were light pourers. Oh, and the place smelled like sewage. Evidently, from the Rouge River flowing next to the patio. And as much as I was trying to placate Princess with "it's all about attitude" . . . well, she was right, it was terrible. I was just thinking that it was funny, because it was so awful. Oh, and single men don't go to wine tastings. Duh. Because they are all at home, playing with their Playstations. But we were really wasting the pretty . . . because the poor dudes on their second dates weren't even cute or interesting enough to steal.
Afterward there was a lovely dinner. An excellent wine. Princess treated. She is too good to me.
And Princess has rallied me throughout this "hey, I might want to have an significant other" process. She has always been supportive. Always there to point out that it took her friend four years (which doesn't work anymore . . . it's been more than four years). So now, it's time for her to get out there. But as I am a matchdotcom disaster, I can only give advice about the Internet. . . not finding a "nice Italian boy" real time. I really am convinced they are at home playing X-box. According to SM, the barista was checking out my chest the other day (which is a whole other blog . . . which won't be written). So where do all the nice Italian boys work? I do need cement.
We had planned for "Table for Eight" but they won't let you bring friends or do anything in tandem. So perhaps we will pretend to be divorced Catholics . . . which wouldn't be too scandalous, as I am not really looking and Princess is Catholic. The divorced Catholic group has lots of mixers.
But please, offer suggestions.
Oh, and as an aside . . . or just a random thought . . . it is amazing me the lengths people will go to to make themselves unhappy, or quite miserable depending on the person. Why is it that people do that?
I am in line long enough for Princess to go to the restroom and for me to chat up the neighboring "mature" ladies. They liked my shoes. And as it turns out, they were giving out free food. It was a "buy an entree, get an entree free" night.
It was a wine tasting showcasing Michigan wines. I know, I know . . . but I've had some drinkable Michigan wines, I swear. None of those wines were showcased, however. And it was totally disorganized. And the people surrounding us seemed to be more about the food, which wasn't all that great. I poured out four of the six wines I sampled . . . poured out, didn't drink them. And the bartenders were light pourers. Oh, and the place smelled like sewage. Evidently, from the Rouge River flowing next to the patio. And as much as I was trying to placate Princess with "it's all about attitude" . . . well, she was right, it was terrible. I was just thinking that it was funny, because it was so awful. Oh, and single men don't go to wine tastings. Duh. Because they are all at home, playing with their Playstations. But we were really wasting the pretty . . . because the poor dudes on their second dates weren't even cute or interesting enough to steal.
Afterward there was a lovely dinner. An excellent wine. Princess treated. She is too good to me.
And Princess has rallied me throughout this "hey, I might want to have an significant other" process. She has always been supportive. Always there to point out that it took her friend four years (which doesn't work anymore . . . it's been more than four years). So now, it's time for her to get out there. But as I am a matchdotcom disaster, I can only give advice about the Internet. . . not finding a "nice Italian boy" real time. I really am convinced they are at home playing X-box. According to SM, the barista was checking out my chest the other day (which is a whole other blog . . . which won't be written). So where do all the nice Italian boys work? I do need cement.
We had planned for "Table for Eight" but they won't let you bring friends or do anything in tandem. So perhaps we will pretend to be divorced Catholics . . . which wouldn't be too scandalous, as I am not really looking and Princess is Catholic. The divorced Catholic group has lots of mixers.
But please, offer suggestions.
Oh, and as an aside . . . or just a random thought . . . it is amazing me the lengths people will go to to make themselves unhappy, or quite miserable depending on the person. Why is it that people do that?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Not My Fault, But I Do Need a Drink
I am now on my third dose, out of forty, of dicloxacillin.
And as with all of this adventure, the freedom from IV antibiotics comes with a few . . . let us say . . . speedbumps? Challenges? Dumb shit I have to deal with?
I'm supposed to take dicloxacillin for times a day. Every six hours. Okay, so 7 am, 1 pm, 7 pm and 1 am. Reasonable enough. Would like to probably do a 6 am start, but didn't get there this morning and probably won't for the duration, so 7 am it is.
Now I'm either supposed to take it an hour before eating . . . or two to three hours after eating. And this is what is tricky to me. This is what just caused me to take a spoon out of my mouth and spit yogurt back into a cup. Because it was 6:53 . . . so I can't eat. I can't eat until 8 pm.
So the arbitrary eating rules are going to get to me. The thinking . . . wait . . . can I eat this bite of cantaloupe now? Or do I have to wait an hour? And yes, I could shift everything over to say 10 am . . . which, let's see, math . . . 4 pm, 10 pm and 4 am. But I don't want to set my alarm for 4 am and heaven forbid if I miss a dose. Because I will not go back to that doctor unless I can say with a straight face that I followed ALL the instructions.
Infectious disease doctor is pretty sure that I do not want to get well . . . in fact, I think that he thinks, that I'm actually seeking out staph germs and putting them all over my body. That I want to be "colonized". That I go, late at night and frolic in unknown McDonalds ball pits . . . and eat candy off the sidewalk. I sneak out and rub my legs on bums. And then go to public restrooms and just lounge around. And I'm not even polite enough to get interesting staph germs, like MRSA. I'm just out collecting regular, old, simple staph. How impolite.
When my fifth abscess did not get better as fast as he would like, it was my fault. I must had not followed the Epsom salt instructions. That was the problem.
So I have to jump through all the hoops, just in case I have to go back. Recurrence is high for staph. Just naturally high. There are support groups . . . some people have it for years. And I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "Nope. Not my fault." (You asshole.) I followed all the instructions.
So in another 45 minutes I can eat the damn yogurt and what ever else I would like for three hours. Dicloxacillin smells funny, which can only mean that I will smell like dicloxacillin in a matter of moments.
Oh, and one can drink alcohol and take antibiotics . . . it just isn't the most stellar of ideas, as your liver is working overtime with processing the antibiotics. Urban myth.
Okay. Just nine and a half more days of this.
And as with all of this adventure, the freedom from IV antibiotics comes with a few . . . let us say . . . speedbumps? Challenges? Dumb shit I have to deal with?
I'm supposed to take dicloxacillin for times a day. Every six hours. Okay, so 7 am, 1 pm, 7 pm and 1 am. Reasonable enough. Would like to probably do a 6 am start, but didn't get there this morning and probably won't for the duration, so 7 am it is.
Now I'm either supposed to take it an hour before eating . . . or two to three hours after eating. And this is what is tricky to me. This is what just caused me to take a spoon out of my mouth and spit yogurt back into a cup. Because it was 6:53 . . . so I can't eat. I can't eat until 8 pm.
So the arbitrary eating rules are going to get to me. The thinking . . . wait . . . can I eat this bite of cantaloupe now? Or do I have to wait an hour? And yes, I could shift everything over to say 10 am . . . which, let's see, math . . . 4 pm, 10 pm and 4 am. But I don't want to set my alarm for 4 am and heaven forbid if I miss a dose. Because I will not go back to that doctor unless I can say with a straight face that I followed ALL the instructions.
Infectious disease doctor is pretty sure that I do not want to get well . . . in fact, I think that he thinks, that I'm actually seeking out staph germs and putting them all over my body. That I want to be "colonized". That I go, late at night and frolic in unknown McDonalds ball pits . . . and eat candy off the sidewalk. I sneak out and rub my legs on bums. And then go to public restrooms and just lounge around. And I'm not even polite enough to get interesting staph germs, like MRSA. I'm just out collecting regular, old, simple staph. How impolite.
When my fifth abscess did not get better as fast as he would like, it was my fault. I must had not followed the Epsom salt instructions. That was the problem.
So I have to jump through all the hoops, just in case I have to go back. Recurrence is high for staph. Just naturally high. There are support groups . . . some people have it for years. And I want to be able to look him in the eye and say "Nope. Not my fault." (You asshole.) I followed all the instructions.
So in another 45 minutes I can eat the damn yogurt and what ever else I would like for three hours. Dicloxacillin smells funny, which can only mean that I will smell like dicloxacillin in a matter of moments.
Oh, and one can drink alcohol and take antibiotics . . . it just isn't the most stellar of ideas, as your liver is working overtime with processing the antibiotics. Urban myth.
Okay. Just nine and a half more days of this.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
What? I Always Make Him Buy His Own Stuff
It was past 11 p.m. and we had reached the checkout . . . after going through produce, grocery, toys, h.b.a. and then grocery again (I didn't want my milk to get warm). And honestly, despite my three hour nap, I was waining. I hate being sick.
I placed all my items on the belt, quickly . . . without thinking. He placed all his items carefully, in groupings, how I usually do it when I do not know the person behind me . . . when I am not in a rush. I usually place things in the order that I want them to be bagged.
Our cashier was confused by the "place between orders" bar . . . we had used one cart. "So this is yours too?" she asked about the neatly rowed low sodium V-8. "No, that's his . . . "
The cashier thought this was hilarious. Funniest thing she had heard all night. His stuff. That was a good one. And how was I to explain? "We carpooled." Even more funny. And I guess one would assume that a couple sharing a cart, I don't know, would not being going to different places at the end of the evening. Here I was making him buy his own stuff.
He tried explaining, "It's just more fun to go shopping with someone else . . . more entertaining . . . I mostly entertain her, I guess . . . " And this statement is true. We did have a sword fight in the toy aisle.
The cashier is not convinced and we have amused her tremendously. I think we made her night.
I placed all my items on the belt, quickly . . . without thinking. He placed all his items carefully, in groupings, how I usually do it when I do not know the person behind me . . . when I am not in a rush. I usually place things in the order that I want them to be bagged.
Our cashier was confused by the "place between orders" bar . . . we had used one cart. "So this is yours too?" she asked about the neatly rowed low sodium V-8. "No, that's his . . . "
The cashier thought this was hilarious. Funniest thing she had heard all night. His stuff. That was a good one. And how was I to explain? "We carpooled." Even more funny. And I guess one would assume that a couple sharing a cart, I don't know, would not being going to different places at the end of the evening. Here I was making him buy his own stuff.
He tried explaining, "It's just more fun to go shopping with someone else . . . more entertaining . . . I mostly entertain her, I guess . . . " And this statement is true. We did have a sword fight in the toy aisle.
The cashier is not convinced and we have amused her tremendously. I think we made her night.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Relatively Good News
Two more days on IV antibiotics . . . and then ten more days on orals . . . and hopefully, knock wood, I'm done.
Doctor seems to think that it will come back and that I will have to go on a series of monthly antibiotics. Seems that he thinks that I am "colonized". But only two more days of being coughed on by the woman with bad feet, who really needs to go get her lungs checked. I worry.
So now I only have one painless ugly thing on my leg and some really ugly scars. And maybe in after two days, I won't want to sleep all day (like I did today . . . ). I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything much (although it did get so bad that I took two Excedrin Migraine) lest a liver blow out. My liver is finicky enough as it is . . .
So in twelve days, I'm so having a glass of wine. Or maybe two.
Doctor seems to think that it will come back and that I will have to go on a series of monthly antibiotics. Seems that he thinks that I am "colonized". But only two more days of being coughed on by the woman with bad feet, who really needs to go get her lungs checked. I worry.
So now I only have one painless ugly thing on my leg and some really ugly scars. And maybe in after two days, I won't want to sleep all day (like I did today . . . ). I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything much (although it did get so bad that I took two Excedrin Migraine) lest a liver blow out. My liver is finicky enough as it is . . .
So in twelve days, I'm so having a glass of wine. Or maybe two.
Friday, July 11, 2008
A Newly Formed Germ Phobe
I once took pride in the fact that I was not a germ-phobe. I didn't carry hand sanitizer. I wasn't constantly spraying my classroom down with bleach. I touched shopping carts. I picked up things off the ground. I had long nails. I went and got pedicures.
I would step foot in a public bathroom.
I was careless and fancy free . . . What? My immune system would handle it. In fact, my immune system would be better for it. Right?
And then I got a spot on my hip . . . which at first I thought was a zit . . . and then thought it was a spider bite . . . right on my hip bone . . .
And after a month of seemingly rotting and a week of people poking me with needles and missing veins (not like "my shots", as I call them, for the allergies . . . they can't miss with those) I think I am reconsidering my position.
I may want a bubble. And everything wiped down with antiseptic. And a world without public restrooms, or people if I cannot verify their level of cleanliness. After two weeks of being judged for a pile of germs that I cannot control . . .
I am afraid to go anywhere. I don't want to infect my friends, or family, or perfectly innocent strangers for that matter. And as careful as I am . . . gloves, disinfectant, following the instructions to the letter . . . I am still not better. Still oozing and contagious. (Although, knock wood, no new spots) And if you read the evil, evil internet I may be doing this whole routine (showering three times a day, using everything only once, hibicleanse every other day, sticking shit up my nose twice a day, cutting my fingernails super short, AND IV antibiotics . . . or oral antibiotics four times a day) for a very long time. Perhaps 12 weeks. And it could still come back.
And there is the faint praise, at least it's not MRSA. But my full test results STILL haven't come in.
Today, the nurse's glove somehow got stuck and she accidentally ripped out my IV needle. I know she didn't mean to do it and felt terrible . . . and it pales in comparison to the time that they stuck me four times in one day . . . but no one really should have to go through this at thirty seven. Eighty? I don't know. I suppose if it were the Middle Ages, I would be dead by now. How's that for a positive spin?
And honestly, I don't know how I'm going to leave the house . . . I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.
I would step foot in a public bathroom.
I was careless and fancy free . . . What? My immune system would handle it. In fact, my immune system would be better for it. Right?
And then I got a spot on my hip . . . which at first I thought was a zit . . . and then thought it was a spider bite . . . right on my hip bone . . .
And after a month of seemingly rotting and a week of people poking me with needles and missing veins (not like "my shots", as I call them, for the allergies . . . they can't miss with those) I think I am reconsidering my position.
I may want a bubble. And everything wiped down with antiseptic. And a world without public restrooms, or people if I cannot verify their level of cleanliness. After two weeks of being judged for a pile of germs that I cannot control . . .
I am afraid to go anywhere. I don't want to infect my friends, or family, or perfectly innocent strangers for that matter. And as careful as I am . . . gloves, disinfectant, following the instructions to the letter . . . I am still not better. Still oozing and contagious. (Although, knock wood, no new spots) And if you read the evil, evil internet I may be doing this whole routine (showering three times a day, using everything only once, hibicleanse every other day, sticking shit up my nose twice a day, cutting my fingernails super short, AND IV antibiotics . . . or oral antibiotics four times a day) for a very long time. Perhaps 12 weeks. And it could still come back.
And there is the faint praise, at least it's not MRSA. But my full test results STILL haven't come in.
Today, the nurse's glove somehow got stuck and she accidentally ripped out my IV needle. I know she didn't mean to do it and felt terrible . . . and it pales in comparison to the time that they stuck me four times in one day . . . but no one really should have to go through this at thirty seven. Eighty? I don't know. I suppose if it were the Middle Ages, I would be dead by now. How's that for a positive spin?
And honestly, I don't know how I'm going to leave the house . . . I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Yet Another Rabbit Hole
My street is under construction and I am not sure that I can get out of my driveway.
The DPW told me to park on a side street, but they ticket on side streets after 2 a.m. . . . and it's a giant pain in the ass.
I'm going to the infectious disease center to hopefully find out what I have and to see a real live doctor . . . I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything, lest thinning my blood more. They poked me three times yesterday, four times the day before. Let's see if we can go for five today.
So I'm cranky. Very, very cranky. I want off the drugs. They aren't making me better. And due to the nature of antibiotics, I'm not sure that I can safely stop the drugs. Also, if I get something else . . . say, a sinus infection . . . now that I have the strongest antibiotics in my system, what do I do next? And I'm still in pain and I'm realizing that no one cares about that. They just see pain as part of the business. And if I catch something else from all these old people coughing and oozing and bleeding . . .
I should have just taken the oral antibiotic from the crazy lady that wouldn't spend more than five seconds with me. Because much like an Alice in Wonderland adventure, the deeper I get into this the weirder and worse it gets. The last doctor basically took a long time to tell me that I was dirty and fat. That I should put my clothing in a hamper and exercise (nevermind that I biked 18 miles the weekend before) and that I was sure to get diabetes. Just a matter of time. If I didn't have it already. (I don't. Already went through that rabbit hole in January.) And I just want to yell "F**K OFF" to these people.
So hopefully the report will come back clean . . . and it's just a allergic reaction to a bug bite . . . and I will stop all the drugs and stop feeling like I drank paint thinner and be able to take a normal poop. I miss pooping. Never thought I would. And don't think too hard about what I do instead of pooping.
Okay, I have to go eat. Just in case they keep me for another five hours. I'm bringing a sweatshirt (sooo cold when they shoot saline through your veins), knitting (although I can't move one of my arms, but I figured I'd try), water (so thirsty all the time), a book and a bad attitude. Wish me luck . . .
The DPW told me to park on a side street, but they ticket on side streets after 2 a.m. . . . and it's a giant pain in the ass.
I'm going to the infectious disease center to hopefully find out what I have and to see a real live doctor . . . I have a migraine and I'm afraid to take anything, lest thinning my blood more. They poked me three times yesterday, four times the day before. Let's see if we can go for five today.
So I'm cranky. Very, very cranky. I want off the drugs. They aren't making me better. And due to the nature of antibiotics, I'm not sure that I can safely stop the drugs. Also, if I get something else . . . say, a sinus infection . . . now that I have the strongest antibiotics in my system, what do I do next? And I'm still in pain and I'm realizing that no one cares about that. They just see pain as part of the business. And if I catch something else from all these old people coughing and oozing and bleeding . . .
I should have just taken the oral antibiotic from the crazy lady that wouldn't spend more than five seconds with me. Because much like an Alice in Wonderland adventure, the deeper I get into this the weirder and worse it gets. The last doctor basically took a long time to tell me that I was dirty and fat. That I should put my clothing in a hamper and exercise (nevermind that I biked 18 miles the weekend before) and that I was sure to get diabetes. Just a matter of time. If I didn't have it already. (I don't. Already went through that rabbit hole in January.) And I just want to yell "F**K OFF" to these people.
So hopefully the report will come back clean . . . and it's just a allergic reaction to a bug bite . . . and I will stop all the drugs and stop feeling like I drank paint thinner and be able to take a normal poop. I miss pooping. Never thought I would. And don't think too hard about what I do instead of pooping.
Okay, I have to go eat. Just in case they keep me for another five hours. I'm bringing a sweatshirt (sooo cold when they shoot saline through your veins), knitting (although I can't move one of my arms, but I figured I'd try), water (so thirsty all the time), a book and a bad attitude. Wish me luck . . .
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
But it Doesn't Feel Like MRSA
I am now on IV antibiotics . . . and they are awaiting another culture and pathology report. Today I was at the infectious disease center for four and a half hours while they pumped me full of a new antibiotic. The strongest they had.
And I keep saying . . . "but this feels different." I think it may a be a reaction to the drugs, as the new lesions on my legs started as bug bites and are completely different from what I went in for originally. And only started when I was on the Cipro. They are red and painful but there is no drainage.
But what the hell do I know? I can move my left leg without pain for the first time since Sunday . . . and I don't know if it's from the antihistamine they gave me to be able to take the antibiotic (pretty bad when they have to dose you with antihistamine, just to put something in your body) or from the antibiotic itself. It's still giant and red.
I feel like the antibiotics are stripping me. I have no energy. I get up, go get the IV, come home, and sleep. Getting up off the couch is a challenge. And then the 4.5 hours in a chair today, next to the bleeding, coughing and oozing. I keep feeling like if I didn't have MRSA to begin with, I may have it before I'm through.
So let's hope the pathology report says I'm clean . . . and I can stop all these drugs . . . and get off the couch to do some fun things this summer.
And I keep saying . . . "but this feels different." I think it may a be a reaction to the drugs, as the new lesions on my legs started as bug bites and are completely different from what I went in for originally. And only started when I was on the Cipro. They are red and painful but there is no drainage.
But what the hell do I know? I can move my left leg without pain for the first time since Sunday . . . and I don't know if it's from the antihistamine they gave me to be able to take the antibiotic (pretty bad when they have to dose you with antihistamine, just to put something in your body) or from the antibiotic itself. It's still giant and red.
I feel like the antibiotics are stripping me. I have no energy. I get up, go get the IV, come home, and sleep. Getting up off the couch is a challenge. And then the 4.5 hours in a chair today, next to the bleeding, coughing and oozing. I keep feeling like if I didn't have MRSA to begin with, I may have it before I'm through.
So let's hope the pathology report says I'm clean . . . and I can stop all these drugs . . . and get off the couch to do some fun things this summer.
Monday, July 07, 2008
The Diagnosis is in!
My diagnosis is in . . . and the whole office goes out to lunch so I have to kill time until 1:15. Seems they want me to come in TODAY, so it can't be good news. And they called promptly . . . I just missed the call because my phone fell, battery sliding underneath the couch, and in my coma-like lethargy I forgot that you can't just put the battery back in . . . you have to then turn on the phone. So until 1:15 . . . I wait. And clean. I'm constantly wiping with Clorox wipes.
I finally got around to reading the pamphlets that accompanies the drugs I am taking. The oral antibiotic I'm taking (and have been taking for a week now) clears up anthrax. It also eats your tendons? Great. But the plague I have is not clearing up.
So . . . no going outside, to avoid bug bites (I think the two current are former mosquito bites) . . . no touching anyone (which has been a bummer) . . . no eating yogurt (messes with the Cipro I'm taking) . . . no scratching or picking at anything (which means zits . . . I don't want this on my face . . . it's bad enough on my legs) . . . and I need new band-aids (I'm fresh out and actually all the ripping three times a day and sometimes more is causing me to bleed)
Okay, it's 1:14. Time to call. Wish me luck!
I finally got around to reading the pamphlets that accompanies the drugs I am taking. The oral antibiotic I'm taking (and have been taking for a week now) clears up anthrax. It also eats your tendons? Great. But the plague I have is not clearing up.
So . . . no going outside, to avoid bug bites (I think the two current are former mosquito bites) . . . no touching anyone (which has been a bummer) . . . no eating yogurt (messes with the Cipro I'm taking) . . . no scratching or picking at anything (which means zits . . . I don't want this on my face . . . it's bad enough on my legs) . . . and I need new band-aids (I'm fresh out and actually all the ripping three times a day and sometimes more is causing me to bleed)
Okay, it's 1:14. Time to call. Wish me luck!
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Broken . . . with Gaping Wounds
"You're going to be fine!" the doctor kept exclaiming, which is leading me to believe that she was totally freaked. The abscess had already burst, just due to its placement on my hip, right where my leg bends. So every time I move, especially to lift myself into the jeep, pressure is applied. Wearing underwear is an unique accomplishment at this point.
So now I have this gaping pus filled hole. And this is somehow much more comfortable than the oozing sore of yesterday. I'm on antibiotics, have special compresses and some sort of cream. The biggest difficulty is getting the bandages on and off, which is supposed to happen three to four times a day. Except for the doctor muttering "looks like MRSA", it was a good outcome.
"Looks like MRSA" . . . freaks everyone out. "So are you quarantined?" SM asked. Princess has decided that we may just go to different movie theaters and call each other to talk about the movie. My father so lovingly pointed out that it is again a holiday weekend, as did the doctor. Evidently, once I get the diagnosis on Thursday, I will have to go to the emergency room if it is MRSA. I don't know why . . . perhaps for IV antibiotics?
I call the doctor today. Go back next week.
And I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I may have also broken my foot. Not that I can do anything about it now . . . as it happened on Friday. But it feels like I'm walking on a ball. A ball of soreness, below my fourth toe. So maybe I'll mention that when I go to the emergency room. Maybe get a set of x-rays with my IV.
Not that I'm going to the emergency room . . . cause I'm going to be fine . . . the doctor said so.
So now I have this gaping pus filled hole. And this is somehow much more comfortable than the oozing sore of yesterday. I'm on antibiotics, have special compresses and some sort of cream. The biggest difficulty is getting the bandages on and off, which is supposed to happen three to four times a day. Except for the doctor muttering "looks like MRSA", it was a good outcome.
"Looks like MRSA" . . . freaks everyone out. "So are you quarantined?" SM asked. Princess has decided that we may just go to different movie theaters and call each other to talk about the movie. My father so lovingly pointed out that it is again a holiday weekend, as did the doctor. Evidently, once I get the diagnosis on Thursday, I will have to go to the emergency room if it is MRSA. I don't know why . . . perhaps for IV antibiotics?
I call the doctor today. Go back next week.
And I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that I may have also broken my foot. Not that I can do anything about it now . . . as it happened on Friday. But it feels like I'm walking on a ball. A ball of soreness, below my fourth toe. So maybe I'll mention that when I go to the emergency room. Maybe get a set of x-rays with my IV.
Not that I'm going to the emergency room . . . cause I'm going to be fine . . . the doctor said so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)