Now ~ to deal my swelling, tender, painful calves which are a symptom of something, no one yet knows what ~I have to wear compression panty hose.
Otherwise known as medical legwear ~ and trust me, Jess, there’s nothing remotely sexy about medical legwear, despite the splashy sales pitch and pictures.
And, they are hell to put on …
I hate them.
They take 20 minutes to struggle into ~ struggle being the operative word. It’s like going to war with your legs first thing in the morning.
And heaven help you if you want to take a shower AFTER you have them on. Forget it. It’s impossible. By then, your legs are so swollen and in addition, you’re wet ~ no towel can dry you dry enough for these bloody things.
Wet or dry, it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to get the damn things back on if you try more than 20 minutes after you’re up and about. By then, the fluid in my body is trapped in my calves and they’re on the swell. Swelling. SWELLING. But there’s nothing “swell” about it.
So, you put your lovely black “sheer” medical legwear pantyhose bright and early, first thing in the morning. And it’s no fun. You need these weird gloves to do it. And … once on, they’re on for the day.
I’m a morning shower person, but those days are gone...
Not baths. Not at night.
Now, I’ll have to shower before bed, when I’m too tired to know where to clean and remember to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. Or if I put conditioner on or not. Sometimes, I’m so tired, I shampoo with conditioner or vice versa. I rarely go to bed before 12:30 a.m. at the earliest. Usually, more like 2 a.m.
Well, lah-dee-dah. There goes my lifelong routine. Now, I’m going to have to become a slave to my “medical legwear” and turn my day around to suit my pantyhose.
To put it mildly, Jess… all this is very upsetting for me. I have no patience for pantyhose. Haven’t worn them in years. Now they are running my life.
And not knowing what causing the swelling is most distressing. I have a very active imagination. Picture what’s going on in my mind.
Not knowing is worse that knowing the worst…
Really worrisome. Also, this swelling is a painful condition, too. My legs are so stretched and sore and tender and I have shooting pains up and down them constantly.
So, I haven’t been blogging. I haven’t done any freelancing. I’m behind in my unpacking. I’m still living in boxes.
And I didn’t tell anyone. I shouldered all this on my own…
Not my mother. Not my sisters ~ except my sister Glorianne who gave me one of her kidneys. I think she has a right to know.
I have told Dr. Bob, but as I don’t see him more than once a week, he isn’t always on top of things. I told my husband and my brother-in-law, the doctor who removed a little lesion on my face last Monday and sent it to be biopsied. It’s right in the middle of my face, Jess. Beneath my nose, on my upper lip. Right in the centre. Yesterday, I had to go to a family brunch, and the first thing my mother said is “What happened to your face.” I cannot use make-up on it to mask it.
Last night, I told her about everything, though. I hate secrets and lies.
I live by a philosophy of “No Secrets. No Lies”…
But I don’t like people worrying about me, either. I have always been a problem for my family. Even when I’m smiling and seemingly happy. I’m My Family’s Resident Nut Case, Jess. So they expect trouble from me. I’m trying to change that, but I having a hard time because things happen to me, things over which I have no control. Like my weird swelling calves.
Last night, I also told my chair at Seneca where I teach, though at a different campus, so she hasn’t seen me lately, because thus far I haven’t missed any classes. But who knows. I might. She is most understanding.
So that’s where I’ve been, Jess.
That’s why I’m a delinquent blogger. I would like to write about this but it isn’t psychological. It’s physical and I’m really getting sick about writing about myself.
I’m a storyteller, not a self-indulgent whiner ~ I’m an incurable perfectionist…
I like telling stories. Discussing issues that are pertinent to other people mental health and wellness, to mental health in general. Newsy things.
I hate what I’ve become here. I’ve not been keeping up with my reading of other mental health bloggers. I’ve learned, through all of this, that I am an incurable perfectionist because I’ve never felt I was “good enough.” That was to be the message from “My Right Shoe…” (I was able to return the broken one and get a new pair, BTW. No problem. It pays to buy your clothes at a supermarket! Great return policy.) My incurable perfectionism was going to be Part Two.
But, then everything else started happening and that message got lost. I’m very tired of being such a downer. I want to be funny and inspiring. That’s what I love to do. And I can, when I put my mind to it, but it’s so hard to concentrate when so much is going on.
And trust me, that’s just half the story…
You won’t believe what happened to me this weekend when my husband was in L.A. at an huge Inktip screenwriter’s conference.
My male Dandie Dinmont Terrier stud dog Riley raped my beautiful little female bitch Lucy ~ when I turned my back. It was a freak accident. I heard a scream and there they were. Doing it.
It’s not supposed to happen. They’re very closely related. I don’t want them to mate. My breeder didn’t want them to mate. I don’t want puppies right now. It’s so much work.
So I had to run to the vet for a vaginal swab for her. Two hundred and eighty-five dollars later and I’m still waiting the results. She’s on Day 32 or her cycle. Usually she’s finishes by Day 24. This happened on Day 25, after she stopped bleeding. Or so I thought.
Lucy, I learned from my brilliant breeder, may be have a split season. (I can’t find any good material about this on line, but essentially, she went through her season, came out, or so I thought, then started again. That’s when Riley got her. And that little rascal’s been trying for five years. So who knows what day she’s on or when she’ll become my little pet again.)
Jessica, don’t ask. I spent the whole weekend walking my dogs because they have to be walked separately.
Now, I have to go. It’s 5:29 p.m. and I have to plan my class for tomorrow. And feed my dogs their supper.
This is what’s been happening and why I haven’t been paying very close attention to Coming Out Crazy lately. Perhaps I should just cut and paste this letter into a post or two and call it, “A letter to my editor…”
With profound thanks for your understanding… in advance,