Faint, Not Feint | Part Two

Feinting is a deceptive or pretended blow, thrust, or other movement, especially in boxing or fencing.

Fainting, or syncope, is what I experienced a couple months ago. I definitely wasn’t feinting when I got dizzy, nauseous, fell, and hit the fireplace. The loss of consciousness felt really weird and not entirely unpleasant.

I thought it was simply an unexplained but strange incident, and finally told my doctor about it.

Her response to me was, “Of course you went to the ER, what did they say? I don’t see that in your notes.”

I replied, “Oh no, I didn’t go anywhere and I didn’t call the paramedics, either, because I was wearing my Hello Kitty jammies. No way was I going to let anyone see me.”

She shook her head and laughed as I explained to her that my RN mom had often drilled into my head that I should never EVER go to the doctor or a hospital unless I was well dressed and nicely groomed– and always with pretty underwear. I mean, there might be scenarios where that’s impossible, but her words are tattooed in my brain.

Of course I would have sought immediate medical help if it happened again, but so far I’ve been lucky.

My doc said her mom was exactly the same, so she understood. However, after asking me a lot of questions, she was concerned enough about my syncope episode to want to rule out any underlying and serious reasons, so she gave me an electrocardiogram and referred me to radiology for a carotid artery ultrasound.

The ECG looked OK and I’ve booked the appointment for the ultrasound to see how my four carotid arteries are performing. Most of the time I think I’m pretty smart but I didn’t know there were FOUR carotids–I thought there was only one, so I’ve learned something. Hopefully, we can rule out any underlying blockages to explain why I fainted. The worse case scenario is that a blocked artery can lead to an increased stroke risk or an aneurysm, but at least I’ll find out one way or another.

The best case scenario is that it was a singular vasovagal syncope episode with no lasting harm. Fingers crossed. Maybe I will actually have “feinted” and dodged a direct hit. That’s funny to think about, but then I’ve been accused of being easily amused…

Since then, my goal has been to mindfully dress for the emergency that might never happen; a personal version of disaster preparedness.

A Painful Anniversary

It’s hard to believe that it’s been nearly a year since I almost completely split open my leg in that stupid crazy accident.

Last year, we were drenched in neverending rain and this year we’re in the midst of a drought — it hasn’t rained a drop in months — and those LA fires are still burning out of control.

I’ll never forget the moment I slipped and fell on the steps and freakishly hatcheted my leg open all the way down to the bone. (It was SO gross.) Nor will I forget how I perfectly executed everything my RN mom had ever taught me as I carefully bandaged the gaping wound and drove myself to the emergency room in a heavy rainstorm; wracked with pain.

There’s still a slight numbness, an absence of feeling directly at the site, but my worst fears of an infection never happened, thank goodness. That would have been TERRIBLE. No MRSA, no staph, no bone nor blood infection; although the possibilities were there. Sometimes it hurts when I accidentally knock into furniture (actually, I just did that again), but healing was unremarkable.

I watched the whole sewing-up process; stuff like that doesn’t bother me, and I was especially interested in the internal suturing and VERY happy the doc was well trained in trauma. My wound was exceptionally deep (to the bone) and eight inches long — such a bizarre accident.

I’m surprised the internal sutures didn’t pop open because I didn’t pay very much attention to doctor’s instructions about not walking or putting weight on my leg or avoiding physical activities for a month.

Did I learn anything from that unfortunate experience? Did I stop running down the stairs in slippery socks? Actually, I DID, and I’ve continued to be slightly more careful because I definitely don’t want a repeat performance of that fateful day.

It’s an anniversary date that I won’t soon forget. I saved all the photos that I took when it happened and while I was in the ER. They’re constant reminders that life can change in the blink of an eye but those pics are too graphic and scary to share. (You’re welcome.)

I’m no stranger to accidents like the time I ran up the hill at sunset because I heard a coyote, and slipped and fell in the ditch. I broke a bone in my wrist — another completely avoidable incident. I think I finally learned the lesson. Well, maybe. Only time will tell.

Read the full stories here: https://enchantedseashells.com/2024/01/21/tales-of-the-er/
https://enchantedseashells.com/2013/07/09/slip-fall-break/

When Your Gallbladder Isn’t Your Friend

GALL…

Of all the unmitigated gall!” “He sure has a lot of gall!”

Have you heard that? My mom used to say it about certain people. I don’t think it’s used very much now, but it still has a relevant place in our language.

Gall is a digestive juice secreted by the liver, stored in the gallbladder, and aids in the digestion of fats. vocabulary.com

If someone has gall, they’re irritating. In fact, as a verb, gall means “to irritate” like new tight jeans that gall your thighs. Gall is “bile,” too, like what’s in a gall bladder. Back in the days of Hippocrates, if the four humors of the body were out of whack, it affected your spirits. If you had too much bile, or gall, then you’d be aggressive or depressed. It’s also a noun for “deep feeling of ill will.”

I’m reminded of this because I’m on my way for a yearly ultrasound to check on the status of a growth on my gallbladder.

Prior to my first ultrasound, I experienced right upper quadrant abdominal pain and that’s how I initially learned about the cyst/polyp.

Adenomyomatosis: An abnormal overgrowth of the gallbladder lining that forms cysts in the gallbladder wall. Scientists aren’t sure why it occurs, but it isn’t usually harmful.

So far (knock on wood), it hasn’t really changed size enough to cause alarm, but my doctor asked me why I haven’t had it removed. She thought it was easier to have it removed than to monitor it on a yearly basis.

No one had suggested that before, especially since it hasn’t reached the size protocol for removal. I’m also thinking that if I did that, it could grow back and anything invasive seems to increase the probability of creating something new and different and perhaps even malignant.

I told her my prudent course of action is to continue to get a yearly ultrasound and if stays the same, to continue to do nothing. I don’t believe in slicing and dicing my body parts unless it’s a thousand percent medically necessary.

Waiting for the ultrasound report is always stressful and I hope when it finally gets emailed to me, it’ll reveal no significant change in size or location to the little cyst valiantly clinging to my gallbladder wall — which would be great news and I’ll be able to stop worrying about it — until next year.

Tales of the ER

How was your Saturday evening? I hope it was better than mine, which you can probably surmise was spent in the emergency room.

Since I’m relegated to enforced rest at the present time, this might be a longish and rambling post…sorry in advance!

Here’s a little background to set the scene:

Lately, I’ve become obsessed with houseplants. It started gradually and before I knew it, I was fully engulfed in collecting, rescuing, propagating, and growing everything from Fiddle Leaf Figs to Calatheas to flowering cacti, and finally, MONSTERA. Yes, I’ve gone completely bonkers for Monstera.

I bought a giant specimen and had finally found the perfect feng shui location for it to thrive, but noticed that it could really benefit from some support.

I ordered a set of moss sticks from Amazon. They were due to arrive yesterday in the late afternoon and as I DO, I kept refreshing the tracking updates.

It was raining heavily when I finally heard the delivery truck.

I was so excited for those stupid moss poles that I FLEW down the flight of oak steps to the front door, wearing my favorite warm but very SLIPPERY socks; a gift from the original Angel Boy…

Without warning, because of course that’s how these things happen, I slipped and fell HARD. I mean really hard because I had been running, so my entire body weight slammed into the last few steps.

Since I’m no stranger to accidents, I sat there for a minute to triage the damage, upset with my stupidity and carelessness, When I ascertained that I hadn’t broken any major bones like a hip, I got up, went outside and picked up my package.

At that point, I had no idea what really happened.

The only part of me that had sustained the major hit was my left shin and I got an ice pack and lay down on the sofa. The pain was intensifying and when I lifted the ice pack, I saw a lot of blood seeping through my leggings.

WARNING: THE REST OF THE STORY IS KIND OF GROSS, not for the faint of heart.

You know how you have a feeling of impending doom? That’s what was going on with me.

I went to the bathroom, and before I looked at my leg, I brought out all my first aid stuff; gauze, tape, compression pads — just in case.

I washed my hands and gingerly and gently pulled up the bottom of my leggings and almost fainted (or threw up) at what I saw.

My leg looked like someone had slashed it with a hatchet and there was an open, gaping wound on my shin, all the way down to the tibia. I saw muscle and BONE. For real. Definitely not for the faint of heart, but I was trained by a wonderful nurse, and knew what to do.

I didn’t bother cleaning it at this point. I ripped open a large sterile gauze square with my teeth because I needed BOTH HANDS to close the two sides of the laceration. I did the same with the tape. After I placed a compression pad over the gauze and secured it with more tape, I knew this was no easy fix and I’d have to endure a visit to the emergency room.

I drove to the better of my two ER options, walked up to the desk and explained that I had a deep laceration that needed to be sutured.

They actually took me to a room immediately. I’m grateful that it was a slow evening and not very many people were there.

From the moment I arrived, everyone was helpful and lovely. Also since it was a slow night, many people came in the room to look at my leg. They praised my initial bandaging, and made jokes about why didn’t I sew it up myself, since it looked like I knew what I was doing.

At a time like this, humor is a great quality to possess, and I enjoy a good joke to lighten the atmosphere. I showed off pics of the grandkids, we discussed football playoffs, and they shared some of their more grisly ER injuries.

One person said she came in to see my leg because of how calm I was when I explained why I was there and she didn’t expect to see an eight-inch gash that must have hurt like hell, but I told her I’m always calm in the face of disaster and it didn’t hurt that much. (It does now, though. A lot.)

Because of the severity of the wound, I needed to have an x-ray to rule out any damage to my tibia before it got sutured. Luckily, my bone wasn’t compromised; no breaks or chips or blood vessel issues.

Other parts of my body are bruised from the impact, but my poor leg took the brunt of the fall from these beautiful but apparently now deadly oak stairs…no one has ever slipped before; I guess it was my lucky day, right?

More people came in to observe this AMAZING trauma surgeon repair the laceration. His wife was a doc too, an ophthalmologist, and we chatted about medical things while we waited for the suture cart and he determined how he was going to sew me up.

After the lidocaine injections, I couldn’t feel a thing, so I watched him work. It was kind of like an out-of-body experience. I probably bothered him with a million questions (like I always do) but he also taught medicine and he was patient and pleased to provide me with detailed answers.

A wound like that (think sharp hatchet splitting wood) needs layers of internal sutures as well as the exterior ones.

I had a total of twelve sutures and a few internal ones. After finishing the job, the doc told me how very lucky I was, because if the wound had been even a couple inches to the right, tendons and muscles would have had to be surgically repaired. Yup, I was lucky.

The tech came back in to dress my leg, adding about fifteen Steri-Strips between the sutures.

The nurse took a bunch of pics that are too graphic to post here and I know it’s going to leave an ugly scar, but I don’t mind because it’s a constant reminder to NEVER again wear slippery socks on those oak steps. EVER. NEVER. Lesson learned.

The Good Doctor 🩺

I know that’s the name of a TV show (I’ve never watched it), but I’m talking about a very good doctor I saw today, and that helps to balance the poor experience I had with the orthopedic surgeon last month.
https://enchantedseashells.com/2023/02/18/not-the-bees-knees-%f0%9f%90%9d/

A few years ago, I had a series of white flashes that warned of a retinal tear in my left eye–DANGER AHEAD!

Fortunately I caught it early, so it wasn’t yet detached and therefore able to be repaired by a laser. https://enchantedseashells.com/2022/03/16/i-see-you-eye-health-seriously/

In a roundabout way, that’s how I ended up meeting Vice President Al Gore. https://enchantedseashells.com/2015/11/04/i-met-vice-president-al-gore-at-the-apple-store/

Every year, I return to the retinal specialist for a comprehensive check of both eyes.

This was a completely different situation to the ortho; night and day.

Usually I see the female specialist but she wasn’t available, so I was warmly welcomed by one of the senior doctors in the practice.

We exchanged pleasantries and courteous chitchat while he readied the tools to see behind my eyes.

Continually gentle and respectful, with reassurances and explanations during the exam, including me in the process to let me know what, if anything, had changed since my last visit.

There was none of that disdain, no eye-rolling, no rush to get me in and out. He kindly explained the details of the exam procedure, answered my questions, and eased my worries about any deterioration or new tears or leaky vitreal fluid.

After the exam, which revealed that everything appeared healthy, he shook my hand and told me not to worry and he’d see me next year.

That’s the way to do it. Thank you, Doctor R! Peace of mind is priceless.

Not the Bees Knees 🐝

Of course I had to research the origin of that term "bees knees". The phrase was originally an 18th century fanciful phrase which referred to something that didn't exist. It was used as the kind of spoof item apprentices would be sent to the stores to fetch - like tartan paint or a left-handed hammer. That meaning is no longer used. In the Roaring Twenties in America, bright young things invented nonsense language to refer to things that were 'the tops' - like 'the cat's pajamas', 'the snake's hips' and so on. They utilized the existing 'bee's knees' phrase to add to that list. The expression has since spread and is now used worldwide to mean 'excellent/the very best'.

🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝 🐝

My visit with an orthopedic specialist was unsatisfactory on many levels.

First of all, the referral happened to send me to the same office that I had been to in the past for other random fractures and torn ligaments, which I thought was a great coincidence.

However, there was a major difference.

Before, I had PPO health insurance, (Preferred Provider Organization), which offers more doctor flexibility and has a higher monthly premium.

Now I have an HMO (Health Maintenance Organization), a network of health care professionals and hospitals who agree to provide medical care at minimal costs.

See the difference?

With PPO insurance, the attitude of staff and doctors is markedly more welcoming when scheduling an appointment than when you call to see a doctor who has first been referred by one’s primary doctor in an HMO. In fact, you can only see a specialist IF it’s been approved and authorized by the primary physician (who’s usually an internist) with a letter of referral from the insurance company.

I had always been treated respectfully — not this time, however!

Initially, when I called to make the appointment and they looked up my previous visits, the communication was pleasant and professional UNTIL I told them I had different insurance, no longer a premium PPO, but an HMO.

She said “Oh”. Her voice changed; her attitude changed. I didn’t think too much of it, didn’t take it personally, maybe it was a busy day or the scheduler had other things on her mind.

When I arrived for my consultation, to be fair, the front desk employees were friendly and professional which bolstered my view that the slight rudeness was a one-off…

However…

I finally saw the doctor about thirty minutes after my appointment time. From the moment he entered the room, I sensed that he was annoyed. He never made eye contact with me. He sat on his stupid little round stool and said “What’s the problem?” and when I I started to explain how it all occurred, he interrupted me to say, “But why are you here TODAY?”

As I started to explain, I could tell he wasn’t listening. He had that faraway look in his eyes that some people get when you know they’re not paying attention. My appointment was in the morning so it wasn’t like he had endured a full day of complaining patients.

He abruptly said, “Sit on the table and let me do an exam”.

It was rushed and cursory. He turned my knee in a few different directions, one of which caused a REALLY sharp pain, and then he pulled my shoes off without warning.

Let’s back up.

I’ve mostly always had great relationships with medical professionals. I like to consider that I’m an informed team member in my own health issues. It’s my body and all that. Because I know a bit about medicine, I feel that I offer valuable insights and points of view that MOST doctors seem to appreciate. I can talk the talk, as it were.

But while I was on the exam table, HE PULLED MY SHOES OFF.

He didn’t ask if I was OK with it, he didn’t ask ME to unlace and take off my workout shoes, he roughly pulled them off my feet — still laced up — and tossed them on the floor.

To me, that was absolutely disrespectful. No one should touch any part of one’s body without permission. Dignity, respect, and civility is not too much to ask of anyone, right?

I was definitely receiving the budget office visit, that’s for sure.

I asked a bunch of questions like I always do and he was SO ANNOYED with me, he didn’t even try to hide it. I could sense the eye roll…

Can I repeat that he never once made eye contact?

While my shoes were still off and on the floor, he opened the door and walked out of the room, turning around to say, “I’ll explain your MRI and x-rays.”

I said, “Am I supposed to follow you?”

No answer.

“Do I have time to put my shoes on?”

No answer.

So…I took my sweet time jumping off the table, bending down to pick up my shoes, unlacing my shoes and then put them on, re-lacing each shoe with a beautifully arranged bow, mindfully, lol.

I wasn’t feeling very comfortable with him as a doctor I’d ever allow to treat my knee.

His assessment of the data was pretty much as the MRI report stated, only more bleak because part of my knee is bone on bone, that’s why it hurts to do squats or lunges.

Here’s what he said, “When it gets bad enough, you’ll want knee surgery.”

“In the meantime, don’t do squats or lunges.” The unspoken words were apparently, “don’t be STUPID” and do squats or lunges.” He didn’t have to say that because his pass-agg attitude was clear.

He also offered to give me a cortisone injection. When I said that I have a bad reaction to steroids, he used “air quotes” to repeat what I said as if he didn’t believe me (really a jerky misogynist move) and instead offered a plasma injection spun out of my own blood which MY insurance doesn’t pay for and is $700 per injection.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked.

I responded that I’d discuss his opinion with my primary physician before I could intelligently decide any course of action, but it’s not bloody likely that I’ll have surgery that includes a recovery time frame of up to twelve weeks OFF my feet. Not bloody likely.

As he was halfway up off his stupid little round stool with his hand already on the door, I said, “But what about physical therapy or some kind of brace to protect and stabilize my knee?”

“What about the torn meniscus or inflamed bursa? That’s actually why I’m here. That’s what hurts. Is there something to do about that?”

“No, nothing will help.”

Then he said, “If you won’t do those things I suggested, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

And he was gone.

I had most likely run over my allotted budget appointment time.

I’m not being melodramatic or overly sensitive.

This is why people bemoan America’s healthcare system, one of many reasons why it’s all messed up.

It was a new experience for me to endure disrespectful and abbreviated treatment like I’m “less than”, a second class citizen solely based on the hierarchy of my health insurance.

Will I tell my own doctor how this one made me feel? You bet I will, and I’m going to request a second opinion, too.

I believe this doc was scalpel happy for sure, but there’s no way I’d trust him to slice open any part of my little body, no matter how many pictures he had on his wall of satisfied customers.

What’s the prognosis for my poor knee? I’m not sure, but at least I know what’s going on in there.

Will I stop doing squats and lunges? NOPE.

Update: I went for a walk along our beach seawall and saw a physical therapist had set up a tent and table for free consultations on a little grassy area. What great timing! I stopped to chat with him and I’m so glad I did! He offered better information about the mechanics of a knee and how to obtain relief (including a brace recommendation) than I did from that orthopedic specialist who wanted to slice and dice. PLUS he was respectful and gentle as he moved my leg around.

Foot Fascination

Due to a communications mixup, I didn’t get to see the new podiatrist until today.

Lemme back up…about a month ago, my foot started to hurt after a long walk. At first I thought it was a stress fracture, but there was no bruising.

Pretend doc that I think I am, I decided it was a joint or tendon injury: extensor tendonitis and possibly capsulitis of the second metatarsal. I wore a boot in the house, iced it, soaked in epsom salts, taped it up with KT tape, and did a lot of stretching.

Refusing to give in to the pain, I forced my poor foot to go on long walks that were excruciatingly painful.

Finally, this morning, I got an xray and waited for the doc. Actually there were two of them that came in to see me, ‘cos I guess it was a slow Monday. They asked me what happened and I gave them both the benefit of my ZERO years of medical school.

I was pretty chatty and finally, one of them broke in and said, “How’d you like to look at the xray?”

I said, “Well, you could have shut me up about five minutes ago haha”, but he said he liked listening to my diagnosis, even though I was totally wrong.

The xray left no doubt as to what the problem is IT’S a COMPLETELY BROKEN stress fracture at the base of the toe and not healing because I kept re-injuring it.

My initial diagnosis was correct! I should have gone to medical school for real, oh well, too late now…

I hate my feet, I really do, they’re tiny but completely deformed from too many years of ballet and toe-crushing pointe shoes, in addition to breaking every toe multiple times because I’m CARELESS. I call them my fat little trotters.

I can’t walk anywhere for two weeks, I have to wear a hiking boot in the house, I can’t go barefoot at all, and I had to promise to actually and truly wear the boot so I wouldn’t be forced to have an aircast up to my knee. In other words, my foot needs to be completely immobilized.

On the plus side, they told me I had the softest feet they had ever seen, (which was only slightly weird) and they loved my high arches–from an anatomical perspective. The docs said I should see the rest of the feet THEY have to look at all day, and in that regard, my feet were a PLEASURE. LOL. AND that my sunny disposition cheered them both up because they were having a not-so-great Monday. We spent a lot of time laughing which made me happy, too.

There’s a SLIGHT chance I’ll have to have surgery in January, but only if it doesn’t finish healing correctly if I disregard their expert advice.

That’s my Monday, I hope yours is less fraught with injury!

Fall + Break: Another Avoidable Injury

Triquetral avulsion fracture.

That’s the name of the break I sustained.xray

I slipped and fell in this ditch Sunday evening in our upper yard as I was looking for coyotes in the hill on the other side of our property.

I was wearing flip flops (not smart) and my hand broke my fall, but then I broke my hand.ditchAt first I thought it was just a sprain or torn ligaments, but the pain was really, really bad, so I had it X-rayed and the doc confirmed my suspicions.

I’m in a removable cast for about six weeks — no weightlifting but I can do anything else that doesn’t cause pain.

My hand is super swollen and all bruised up, too.

brokenhand

I might not be able to lift weights, but there’s nothing to prevent me from shopping!

I never did see any coyotes but I snapped a pic of this amazing hawk in our eucalyptus tree.

hawktree2