Bees and Butterflies

Summer is hanging on, amazingly enough. The sedum is in full bloom and attracting lots of attention.

The Pictures Are Here!

I know this saga of my wound has everyone on the edge of their seats. Well, maybe not now that you know the wound isn't going to kill me and I've graduated from the wound center.

I seem to have a narrow view on life, not being able to see farther than my leg. Really I think about other things and have very strong opinions on a number of subjects. Maybe now that I have some closure on this part of my life I can get on with the rest of it.

While I'm still harping on it, I want to tell you I've had lots of hits from far flung places. The search strings are very interesting. Some people are looking for cures for scabs on their rabbits. I want to tell those people right now that I have no idea what is wrong with their rabbits or how to make those scabs go away. But I've had more many more hits for salt in the wound. I can't figure out if those people want to inflict more pain or cleanse wounds.

If it is the latter, I will give you my recipe for saline: Boil 3 cups of water with 1 teaspoon of salt. Cover and let cool and pour into sterile containers. If it is the former: Just knock it off. Think happy thoughts. Go for a walk. Volunteer at a shelter. Just do something nice.

And now (drum roll please) here is what you've all been waiting for... (Well, Hannita has and that's enough for me)

THE PROGRESSIVE PICTURES OF MY WOUND

Hippo Birdie At Last

I got two diplomas this year. In May I got an AAS degree from a community college. Today I graduated from the wound center and have a piece of paper to prove it. It says, "CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR WOUND IS HEALED!"

Last week I went to the stupid lymphedema center at the stupid hospital and got fitted for a stupid compression stocking. The therapist Angie measured my leg and came back with a package of stockings that looked like they would fit a two year old. Just for fun she had me prove my strength by putting the stocking on my leg without any aids. I was beginning to doubt my strength but eventually got it on. (Huff, puff, tug, pull) Then she made me take it off which proved to be just as difficult. Then she wanted me to put it on again. I told her I wanted the Easy Slide cheater that the doctor prescribed. Ahh.... Much better.

After all that struggle she told me that wearing rubber gloves made it easier to pull the stocking on and smooth it out. Which pissed me off in a way. Why put me through all that BS? Why not just hand out Easy Slides and rubber gloves?

At the wound center today a nurse removed the stocking and took another picture of my lovely wound. Then I heard her outside my cubicle whispering my name. For the first time I let them know that their conversations were not private. "I can hear you talking about me! Are you planning my party?"

Soon in came Nurse Kelly, Young Perky Doctor and two nurses. Nurse Kelly was carrying a piece of cheesecake. They sang happy birthday to me. I whipped a camera out of my purse and took their picture, to be posted soon.

The doctor marveled at my wound. Then I whipped out my Easy Slide and rubber gloves and I impressed them with the speed and ease at which I donned my stocking. Then we gave each other a hard time for awhile, I signed some more papers, got handed my diploma and left.

They are going to miss me.

Hippo Birdie Redux

On my birthday I went to my first wound center appointment. I don't know how many different people I gave my birth date to didn't notice it happened to be the very day I was getting my leg reamed out. It was depressing!

On my second appointment I mentioned the horrible oversights to Nurse Kelly and Perky Young Doctor.

On the third appointment Nurse Kelly came into my cubicle and said "Happy Birthday a week late." Every appointment since (I've lost track), Nurse Kelly mentions my missed birthday. In two weeks I'll have what I hope is my last wound center appointment.

Nurse Diane told me long ago that you sort of "graduate" from the wound center. Today when Nurse Kelly was rubbing the missed birthday in I told her I expected a party on my last appointment. With cake.

Cake or not, I think I made an impression.

Walking Wounded

I went back to the wound center today. I got in right away (a first) and didn't wait too long for the doctor to show up (another first).

All were amazed at my progress: the nurse that led me in and undressed my leg; the doctor and her side-kick, Nurse Kelly; and Nurse Diane, the first nurse I met at the wound center (my favorite).

For the last two weeks I was supposed to go through the initial dressings but had graduated to a sensi-sock (for diabetics) to be covered from ankle to calf with a tightly wrapped Ace bandage. That happened for like one day before I cut the foot off my sock. And then, only on occasion, wrapped over that with the Ace bandage. The Very Special Fabric got left out during the last week because the wound was healing so well.

When Nurse Diane was dressing my leg after the doctor left I told her to leave off the Ace bandage. I'd worn the sensi-sock that didn't have the foot cut off to the appointment. But no way was I going to run my errands in Big Town wearing sandals and a footed sock on one foot. I promised her I would wrap the Ace around my leg after I switched socks. I didn't, but then I Ace when I feel like it. I love Nurse Diane for her complicity.

The most depressing things about the recent healing are that I have to (or rather, they think I'm going to) wear a compression stocking all winter and (the worst, worst part) I have to go into the hospital proper to some stupid place and get "fitted" for a stocking.

After getting the first piece of paper from the insurance company from my first wound center visit, I'm just not sure I want a bill from walking into the hospital, waiting for hours and having a nurse measure my leg. I'm sure it would be a cheap stocking! That I probably will not wear! I am working on a work-around on this. Does anyone know the compression ratio I should have for a post-wound stocking?

I have been trying to take pictures every day of my healing wound. I am making a Flash movie and will post it later. It will end will a really cool scar. Or a compression stocking.

The Hole Truth

The last picture I posted was old. It was taken before my second appointment and I had my third appointment last week. I'm a wound center old timer now. Anyway I photographed my wound when it was naked this morning and posted the two pics side by side so you could compare the difference. If you want to. Once again, no one is forcing you to look. This is your warning, Random Mindless Ramblings. It is gross, even if it is healing. Look or not.

Mmmmmmm..... Hamburger

I had my first follow up leg hole appointment last Wednesday. The nurses, and eventually the doctor, were very excited to see granulation tissue. The doctor told me the goal was to have the whole wound look like raw hamburger. And not that turkey hamburger,either. Here is a picture of my leg with granulation tissue before that appointment. Not for the squeamish and don't you dare email me about the grossness of it because THIS IS YOUR WARNING. I'm not the damn government. I can't protect you from yourself.

I had another appointment today but I did not want to go. Rain was threatening and we've just had enough of the stuff. We've had so much that you can not be sure that the road you want to drive on is drivable. For a couple of days it was impossible for me to go anywhere in my little car.



The storm approached and I left early so I could stock up on groceries before my appointment. The roads were fine and I made it to Big Town. But then I had to cross the swollen river. On the bridge that has the same flaws as the fallen Minneapolis bridge. Gulp.

I made it to the grocery store on the other side of town. When I came out with my cart full the skies were dark and lightning was striking. I just wanted to go home. Somehow I didn't die of a heart attack while screaming at the idiot drivers and the slow changing lights. I had to get out of the low part of town FAST.

I had to cross the possibly crumbling bridge again. At last I made it to the outpatient center at the back of the hospital. I was early so I sat and considered getting while the getting was good.



There were turkey buzzards drifting above the hospital but I didn't catch them in the frame. I thought they were a sign telling me to leave, leave, leave! But I toughed it out. Well, sort of. I went to my appointment and was left waiting a lot and I was constantly on the verge of screaming "I HAVE TO LEAVE NOW!"

The doctor and my treatment deserves its own post. Suffice to say, I am still alive, I still have a hole in my leg and the treatment goes on and on and on. Excuse me now. I have to obsess over the weather radar.

Hippo Birdie Two Ewes, Pets and Pharmacists

Yesterday was my birthday. My very special day started with an 8 a.m. appointment at the wound center. I checked my email before I left and I got a birthday greeting from a pet forum and an ecard from my cats, Felix and Mouse.

I arrived early and got sent to registration where the woman clicked tons of vital information into the computer. Including, of course, date of birth. Then I went to a waiting room and was soon ushered by Nurse Diane through a locked door into the wound center and sequestered in a cubicle. Where I was subjected to another hour of paper work. Including date of birth. Several times on several forms. I wanted to ask if the left hand ever talked to the right hand in that joint about the information that had already been tapped into the computer. And if anyone there knew what day it was. They didn't catch on that it was my birthday. And my birthday was being sucked away by paperwork.

After the paper work I was left alone to do sudokus for a half hour and wait for the doctor. I heard her outside my room looking at my new chart and berating the nurses who handled the paper work. "But I don't know this about the patient! What about blah, blah, blah?" I listened to her rant for 5 minutes. I almost left at that point. If she didn't have enough info, maybe I should spend my birthday somewhere else. Like a bar.

Eventually the very perky young doctor entered the room. She did doppler tests on my feet to see if I was getting blood to them. She tickled my toes with a filament to see if I had feeling. Then she dug out the hole in my leg with great gusto. She took measurements and recited numbers and medical words to an assistant who dutifully recorded them. The doctor really enjoyed the process. Twenty minutes after entering my room, she was done and gone.

Nurse Diane came back to give me a shopping list and teach me how to dress my wound. First protect the skin around the wound with extra protective ointment (vaseline). Then soak a strip Very Special Fabric in enzyme cream (and not that damn generic stuff I had been using). Then take the ends of the soaked strip and stuff them in the tunnels that have developed in the hole in my leg and wad the middle of the VSF up in the hole. Then cover the wound with a Very Special Piece of Gauze (gauze that is covered in vaseline). Then cover that with a large regular gauze pad. Then hold that all together by wrapping a conforming stretch bandage around and securing with Transpore tape. NO SELF STICKING STRETCH BANDAGES. NO PAPER TAPE. Then starting above the toes and ending below the knee, wrap Cast Padding snuggly and tape to hold. THEN wrap an elastic bandage over the cast padding and secure with tape. Then try in vain to get your sandal back on. Redress wound daily. Elevate leg for 30 minutes 5 or 6 times a day.

It was 10:30 before I got back to my car with my large leg and shopping list. Crab called. He finally remembered my birthday.

Since I was in Big Town, I went to the pharmacy Nurse Diane recommended, thinking I would be able to get everything I needed there. The only thing I walked out of the wound center with was an elastic bandage and what was left of the Very Special Fabric. Inside the recommended pharmacy I was greeted immediately by a pharmacy helper who took down my name, DOB, address and phone number. "Happy birthday!" She sent me to the window where the pharmacist started entering my info in the computer. "Happy birthday", he said.

My shopping list got handed to the other pharmacist who tried desparately to help me. Several problems. He'd never heard of this Very Special Fabric. Cast padding?? He didn't carry cast padding. He looked up the VSF and he could order it. Only $50 a box! I ended up leaving with what I could and VSF on order. The next pharmacy I stopped at didn't have cast padding either. Then I thought about it. What pharmacy would? Who sets their own broken arm and makes their own cast? I ended up at Hobby Lobby and bought a bag of low loft quilt batting and cut it into (sort of) 4" strips. It will have to do.

I finally got around to redressing my wound around 10:30 this morning. I was surprised that it did not hurt. I'm not so hot at the mummy wrap but I think I fulfilled all the requirements. Except for the 30 minutes of elevation 5 or 6 times a day. Does an hour and a half nap count?

And for those of you who are not squeamish, you can look at the hole in my leg here. I haven't photographed the hole in my head yet.

Happy birthday to me, a little late.

Circus Strongman

The rolling circus that is RAGBRAI (or here) is currently touring the state. For those who are unfamiliar with RAGBRAI, it is a week long organized bicycle ride of around 20,000 riders that take one week to travel from Iowa's west coast to Iowa's east coast.

The Des Moines Register, which sponsors the ride, has nothing but good things to say about the masses of pedaling flesh that roll in, destroy a town and move on. The t.v. stations get in on the act, too, following the route and recording footage of memorable events in little towns across the state.

In spite of the fact that the coverage is a constant barrage from all sides, it is a nice diversion from the hundreds of presidential candidates that have been crawling all over the state. If all the presidential candidates were riding the whole, hot ride, they would not get much attention because...

OHMYGODLANCEARMSTRONG is riding this year!! Last year he rode for a few days. He couldn't have gotten more coverage if it had been the second coming.This year he is riding the whole ride with "Team Livestrong".

UPDATE -- Since I started writing this yesterday it has been announced that Lance may quit the ride to cheer on his team at the Tour de France.
UPDATE UPDATE -- Looks like Lance is leaving, the pussy

People ride in groups that have silly names. They have stickers printed up with their team name on them and stick them on whatever body part a person will let them near.

One team I knew had tattoos made. They also had a method to adhere the tattoos and it went like this:

• Sloppily lick a woman's breast (or as close to the breast as the woman will allow)
• Place the tattoo on the wet spot
• Lick the back of the sticker (allowing more face time)
• Peel off the paper backing

The women on the team adhered tattoos to men's upper thighs in the same manner. From across the room it looked a lot like the fellow was getting "serviced".

When they roll through a town they expect entertainment, food, drink. Not only do they expect it, the DM Register dictates in reams of printed matter what you should provide. It also warns you of dire consequences of using the name RAGBRAI for profit. This is, after all, their cash cow and there just isn't enough hamburger to go around no matter how you grind it.

Tiny K-town (population about 100) has had the pleasure of being servants to the circus twice. I must admit, if you just come to party it is one hell of a party. But if it is your tiny town the circus invades, it is months and months of preparation. And a hell of a long day of serving. And one big mess left behind.

I think the riders can be divided into three groups. The first group wants to prove how great they are and they rise before the sun and pedal as fast as they can to the overnight town, stopping only if absolutely necessary (like to take a dump in a corn field).

The second group isn't in that much of a hurry. They like to stop at each town, discover what it has to offer, meet people, buy food and drink and then pedal on.

The third group heads straight for the beer or liquor when they hit a town, no matter what the hour. They initiate "naked beer sliding" contests on the floors of bars. Men moon and women flash. You can find them at night riding their light less bikes 20 miles from the overnight town with another town and party ahead of them. They are the most fun, most annoying, most rude and most dangerous.

The third group is one that the paper Iowa depends on will never show you in its paper or on its website. It's probably not the RAGBRAI that Lance Armstrong will see, either. But I'll bet there's lots of women on the ride who wanted to flash him.

Pouring Salt in the Wound

I finally consulted a medical pro about the wound on my leg -- two and a half weeks after the incident. What was a scrape had developed into a big, black scab. Plus I was pretty sure I needed an antibiotic.

The med pro tap, tap, tapped on the scab and then told me healing would be a process. I freaked a little. When Captain Crab was a medic in the service, he worked in a burn unit for a time. He told me about their process, in which they let saline soaked gauze dry on burns. Then they ripped the gauze off, tearing away the damaged skin. I wanted to tell my med pro that I preferred to be unconscious during the process.

Luckily, my process was much less painful. Wash the wound with canned sterile saline, pat dry, protect the good skin by dabbing with vaseline, apply skin eating cream to the black scab and cover with gauze pad, twice a day. I went to the drug store and got my scripts filled and stocked up on the incidentals, buying the ONLY can of sterile saline.

Days later I went on a search for more canned saline. Wally World (which sucks, btw) was out of it. Target had cans that were half the size as the first one I bought at the same price. Five bucks for 3.1 ounces of salt water? (No, for the CAN.)

I had my process checkup a week later and mentioned to my med pro that the price of the sterile saline was ridiculous. She told me that I could just make my own and she would write down the recipe for me. She came back with a note pad and wrote:
1 cup water
1/3 tsp. salt

She told me I could double it if I wanted.

I told her I was pretty good with recipes and would figure it out.

Welcome to the 21st Century

My grandpa was born in 1899. When I was a kid we sat and tried to imagine the year 2000. He told me that he wouldn't see it. I couldn't imagine seeing the year 2000 myself.

Gramps had 12 grandchildren he called the Dirty Dozen. In his later years, we celebrated his birthdays by gathering every year at his tiny house for a picnic. By that time, Gramps had begun to acquire great-grandchildren. I enjoyed these birthday parties with my cousins, whom I hadn't seen much since we were all little kids.

Gramps didn't make it to the year 2000. He died in his mid-seventies in the mid-seventies. He was the first person close to me to die. I refused to look at his body in the coffin, preferring to remember Gramps as a living human being who missed his wife who died too young. Who let me put peanuts in his glass of beer and watch the bubbles rise to the top. Who told me stories of growing up on the farm with his German speaking parents. My stubborn, sweet, living Gramps.

Yesterday I made a leap into modernity. I installed the Firefox browser. I know, I know, I should have been using it already. Change is hard for me. I had everything in IE just where I wanted it. But I'm getting around fine in Firefox minus the annoying things that made me want to dump IE in the first place.

I was drug reluctantly, browser-wise, into the 21st century. But I made it. And like midnight on December 31, 1999, when we were all propelled into the new millennium*, afraid of the Y2K computer glitch that would throw the world into utter chaos, I thought of Gramps.



*Please, no arguments about when the new millennium actually began. I do not care.

The Bush Files

Ads Nauseum

Speaking of ads....

There was an animated ad for quilted Northern toilet paper once. All these women were sitting around a big hunk of this toilet paper in old fashioned quilting bee style. With knitting needles in their hands.

Every time this ad ran the ignorance of it pissed me off. Someone must have informed Madison Avenue that quilting was done by making small stitches with needles and thread and not knitting needles. The commercial was changed but the idiocy of the ad makers still rankled me.

I took marketing first semester last year. My instructor was so incompetent on the subject and assigned lots of reading and paper writing. The class soon figured out that she was not reading the reams of paper we handed in. One of my classmates inserted bits into paragraphs to check the instructor's paper checking. Like everything he'd eaten the day before. Pork chop, applesauce, mac 'n cheese. She never saw it.

Whenever we wanted to make each other laugh in class, all we'd have to do is say, "Pork chop". It was hilarious.

In my desparation to actually get something out of the class, I'd do online research. One day I came across this article in Wikipedia. It became our new hilarious catch phrase. And it pretty much told me all I needed to know about Madison Avenue.

Got (Sour) Milk?

I flipped on the t.v. yesterday afternoon while soaking my injury in a 5 gallon bucket. (Which is the ultimate decorative home accecessory.) In the span of an hour I saw the most disturbing commercial ever. And I saw it three times in that time frame! Crab came home and I told him about it, but he didn't believe me. Of course it didn't play while he was sitting there.

The commercial goes like this:
A guy walks into a barn holding a glass milk bottle. A another guy is sitting with his feet propped on a stool. He is eating sour Skittles. Hooked to his chest are the operating ends of a milking machine. Guy #1 berates the guy getting "milked". If he quit eating sour Skittles, maybe the milk wouldn't taste sour.

Ew, ew, ew! On so many levels!

1. Human milk in a bottle for adult humans??
2. Man milk??
3. I know where that guy would rather put those sucking vacuum tubes and I can't get that image out of my mind.

What in hell is wrong with the people who make these ads? Are they that stupid about farming? Human anatomy? About what humans consume? If they wanted a shock value, they got it. If they wanted me to buy Skittles, they missed by a country mile.

Water, Water Every Where

Breaking a 5 gallon jug of drinking water on your kitchen floor is not a good way to start the day.

In One Foot and Out the Other

I injured one foot last week and this week (figuratively) shot myself in the other. I don't know why or what I'm doing to myself. Maybe I just like being miserable?? Time to get my head shrunk again, I guess.

So I injured myself considerably on Wednesday and showed up for Crater Days on Friday at 5 p.m. On Saturday morning I returned at 10 for the parade and spent the whole day at Crater Days (except for a one hour break to return home to get a visor and MORE batteries for the camera). I made it home about 2 Sunday morning, then went in to the (damn good farmer food) brunch about 10 a.m. on Sunday.

After I ate I came back to my rural neighborhood and caught up with Crab who had been helping the neighbors. I sat with them and imbibed, WTF. And my foot hurt. It was probably the first time I looked at it all weekend. My foot and ankle were huge.

Evidently, it is not a good idea to spend countless hours on your feet with an injury such as this. I have tried to baby it since then and it has shrunk somewhat. The bruising has settled in my foot and makes it look like my foot is dirty. But I have washed it, honest.

Here is a pic of Felix helping me photograph my foot:

Killer

As the Ankle Turns 24 hours later

It appears that my ankle is swollen. On the advice of former Air Force Medic Captain Crab, I spent much of the day with my leg elevated. Occasionally, I applied ice packs.

I guess there was blood from the scrape, but it was not gushing blood so I dismissed it. Blood must gush to count.

I don't know what is with that weird blister, though. At first I thought it was a bulging vein ready to give birth to a blood clot that would worm its way to my heart or brain and kill me as snapped photos of Crater Days getting flooded out again. But it's just a weird blister.

I can walk so I know the ankle isn't broken. But can I stand on it for hours on end? No way. I don't know if I can even drive.

I have been reading an Augusten Burroughs book today to pass the leg elevation time. I would tell you which one but I'd have to hobble across the room to look at the title. Or Google it. But I'm too lazy to do either.

Is it normal for pain to make you tired? I'm tired and the most exercise I've done today is strap on ice packs.

I can't wait for this to turn purple and green. And for it to stop hurting.

It Runs in the Family

Over at Random Mindless Ramblings, H has commented that her klutz factor that seems to rear its ugly head at weddings. I don't need a special event to cause damage to my body. Any old ordinary day will do.

Last Monday I hurt my ring finger when installing the window air conditioner. I didn't realize it at first. Later my finger really, really hurt. Inspection revealed that the ring had cut my finger right at the base on the inside of my hand. Wow. Now I know why so many farmers are missing that particular finger and why my husband refused to wear a wedding band. My wedding band went on a chain around my neck. The finger still hurts.

But the house is cool. Well, it is COLD in the kitchen and really warm in Captain Crab's room, but hey, it evens out if you walk from one end of the house to the other.

This evening I was looking out the kitchen window and noticed that it was sprinkling, but only at the kitchen window. It is sunny and hot with nary a cloud in the sky. So I went outside to inspect the source of immaculate precipitation.

Outside my kitchen there is a big hunk of cement that used to be an entry stoop back in 1899. Now its just a big slab and a repository for shit that hides behind my house. Shit like a dog house for the yard dog that we had 10 years ago, the retractable clothes line that is broken but is going to get fixed, dammit, and my hillbilly grill.

I made the hillbilly grill out of cement blocks, bricks and the grates from a gas grill that fell apart after 3 seasons of use. It is not mortared together, but it works on the rare occassion I have enough foresight to start charcoal.

To inspect the source of the moisture I stood on one of the cement blocks on the slab. I deduced, but could not tell for sure, that the water was coming from the vent in the top of the window air conditioner. In an attempt to will the stoop closer to the air conditioner so I might inspect it better I tipped the cement block off the stoop. The block fell off the stoop and onto my leg before hitting the ground.

Ow (at first). Then -- fucking double shit ow.

No blood. Good.

Big ass dent on back of leg. Bad.

Walking is possible. Good.

Made it to house. Very good.

It took me a while to come out of my pain haze to realize I should do something sort of first-aid like. Then I remembered to apply cold. So that is what I'm doing. Sitting here with an ice pack tied to my leg. Hobbling is possible. Pictures of an ugly purple and green bruise to be posted in a few days is probable.

Ow.

Cruisin' for a Bruisin'

I am trying to dig out my house. I am in a twilight zone now, not quite at the "everything must go!" stage but in such a pickle with the mess I've created while trying to dig that I see no other way out. And no place to sleep tonight, for that matter.

And I keep finding things that throw me back a few years. Sometimes I think "why in hell did I ever keep that?" and other times I'm so absorbed in my trip down memory lane that I forget my original mission.

For example: I came across a notebook small enough to stash in a purse. In the back of it were some notations not worth keeping. I almost tossed it. BUT -- in the front was my little diary of the cruise I went on in 1999.

First of all, people, I want you to know I am not a cruise person.

Shortly before I went on this cruise I told someone who was trying to get me to fork over big bucks to go on a "class reunion" cruise that the only way I'd ever go on a cruise is if someone paid my way.

Be careful of what you don't wish for. A few days later I got a call from a friend who'd already booked a cruise for 2 and her significant other was unable to sail away with her.

Being the good friend that I am, I took her boyfriend's place, went on the cruise and recorded events in my tiny notebook.

One entry that really made me laugh was about sharing a room and one tiny hairdryer.

One afternoon we came back to the room after a long, hot day on shore and had to get ready for the early seating formal dinner.

My friend took the bathroom first, telling me "We have 40 minutes!"

Being a low maintenance girl, I wasn't worried. I laid down on my bed and rested. The next thing I knew, my immaculately groomed and coiffed friend emerged from the bathroom announcing, "We have 7 minutes!"

My entry states that she looked great at dinner and was awfully composed considering she knew I wanted to fucking kill her.