January 3rd


So, you want the good news or the bad news?

For the second time in a couple weeks I was awakened this morning screaming, with a terrible charlie horse cramp in my left calf muscle. The kind that take you from deep sleep to agony at 100mpg. There was a bruise on the back of the calf, and it seemed to get worse through the morning, more painful when walking and sure hurt to touch. By mid morning at work it was just hurting worse and worse, and I was scared shitless. My fear? A DVT, deep vein thrombosis, which worst case can lead to a pulmonary embolism.

I was pretty sure, worrying about the worst case of course, and the other fellow I'm training to replace me when I leave my Other Job next week started talking in terms of how he'd have to do things tomorrow by himself. We finished up work as early as we could and I ran by the house for a bag full of books to read [Ethical Slut, Shamanism as a Spiritual Practice for Daily Life, and The Big Thaw, a police procedural] if it was a clot and they kept me, cashed a check just in case I needed cash, stuffed a pocket full of phone numbers, and headed in to my designated HMO emergency room.

The one thing I knew was that I'd catch up on my short sleep. Every other time I've been at that ER I do - this time I got about 45 minutes nap in the lobby after checking in, and another close to an hour in the room wearing that drafty gown up on that hard little table after the nurse BP'd me and before the doc swept in.

Turns out the doc thinks it is a re-injury. Some years ago, when I was helping out at Sin, I jogged across the street once and my calf muscle - the gastrocnemius for you word queens - spontaneously ruptured. Ouch. Slowed me down for a while, but that was about '93 or so, close to ten years ago. Several times lately I've awoken to severe charlie horses - perhaps my potassium being off, given my diuretics. She thinks I re-ripped part of the calf in or around the scar tissue from the old rupture.

So, the good news is I wasn't admitted to the hospital, and it wasn't a clot. The bad news is, it still hurts, limits my get-around, and I'm home through Saturday with frequent ice on it. I really hate icing injuries. Give me a choice, I'll apply heat anytime. However, I believe the instruction she wrote out longhand on the doctor's report stated "ice ice ice ice ice". At least I had the wisdom to pick up about 5 more DVDs on the way home from the ER.

Oh - also on the plus side was that I got the phlebotomist to draw 4 vials instead of the three the doc ordered. I needed a vial of my own blood to use in creating a potion for this upcoming ritual. I just told her the truth - I'd prefer not to have to draw my own, but I do need a vial for a ritual. It might have helped that I pumped my hand just right, showed her the good veins, and calmly watched the butterfly going into my vein. She told me she wouldn't document it because, frankly, she had no idea how she would explain it. [If anyone wishes to get her in trouble, she's a 6'4" Swedish girl with a stutter and a severe Cuban accent, and walks with a skipstep, said her name was McGill, and she called herself Lil, but everyone knew her as Nancy.]



Kevin and I had a chance to talk at some length today, work out some things that had gotten in the way. I'm glad we talked, I'm glad he's my friend - he's a quality guy.


Life - even given all the salt and pepper thrown into the mix - is good.



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