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Dec. 27th, 2007 12:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urocyonIt feels strange--I'm actually not working today, and slept until 9:00 (as opposed to the usual weekday 6:00). The alarm didn't get me up, and apparently Ingvar decided to let me sleep.
The reason is rather annoying in a ridiculous way, though. We ended up seeing in Christmas from the local A&E/ER, after Little Miss Muppet here tripped over an empty water bottle and went flying, arc of descent broken by one kneecap against the edge of a nearby table. The table almost toppled before my upper body stopped it. Nary a drop of alcohol was involved, believe it or not.
Now, that kind of accident is not so unusual in Rachel Land, so I just continued hobbling around and trying to fix supper for ten or fifteen minutes, expecting the pain to improve. Then I thought it better to lie down and put a bag of frozen corn on it, again expecting the pain to improve. The pressure from the ice pack was hard to take, and the pain just got worse--with obvious bone pain--as did the immediate swelling from something bleeding in there. As much as I detest medical settings, having that knee looked at seemed like a good idea. Bearing in mind that I've had two ACL reconstructions along with an assortment of other orthopedic injuries, the pain level was fairly impressive. My pain tolerance is high enough anyway that I've had trouble being taken seriously, because my reactions apparently aren't anywhere near what a lot of people expect.
The hospital visit was about what you'd expect from an NHS hospital on Christmas Eve. (Frankly, I'd already determined that if the knee turned out to need surgery, I wasn't letting those jokers near it, but would have to figure out some way to pay to have it done back in VA. I've already had one knee surgery that wasn't all it could have been, and that was after interviewing surgeons to choose one--with references.) Neither one of us had been in the new hospital, which has been open for about a year, yet. Somehow, it already looks almost as run down inside as the Victorian pile it replaced. I must say, I was impressed again at just how much quicker checking in is when they aren't demanding reams of insurance information every time; this time the waiting room was not even busy, and we were taken back within half an hour of walking in. Oddly, the second reception window--where they take most of the information--did not have any chairs, nor even a shelf at a reasonable leaning height for people who can't stand up very well and have, erm, gone in to see about it. Average British heights still strike me as a bit short, but not nearly enough that a shelf at groin height to my short legs would be reasonable.
After we got into the treatment cubicle, the wait began. The place did not seem overly busy (yet) at just past supper time, and the personnel-to-patient ratio was at least 2:1 when we got there. Still, we were there until after midnight. At least half of it was a passive aggressive response to working that shift, I'd imagine. They kept bustling around the nursing station outside the cubicle, while completely ignoring the fact that I was vomiting. Part of that was from sensory overload and low blood sugar (not much lunch, no supper, stress), besides from the actual pain level. Ingvar had to dig a Forbidden Planet bag out of his backpack, after my hobbling in search of a toilet produced no results. They may well have assumed I was drunk, but that is still pretty unprofessional behavior. I saw one nurse smirking. Ingvar offered multiple times to go and remind them that we'd been waiting forever, but I figured that would only make the wait longer, under the circumstances.
The doctor I saw was OK, at least. It turned out that the kneecap is not broken as I'd suspected--a huge relief--but he did not act as if I were wasting their precious time. The symptoms do fit a bone bruise. I really hope I didn't blow another ligament too, because the joint did look and feel a lot looser than usual when he tested it, though he didn't seem concerned. (That knee had a much tighter ACL job than the other, even done 10 years before. He probably expected looser results, as a couple of different orthopods have been pleasant surprised.) He seemed appalled that I had the dry heaves from pain (which had had time to amplify, so that I was also getting burning jolts of pain up and down that femur and tibia, and both feet--sometimes I really dislike the way my nervous system is wired), and promised an injection since I probably couldn't keep tablets down. And we waited. The doctor came back around, surprised we were still there, and again promised pain meds (with some to take home for the next couple of days) and a compression bandage. It's a good thing I rejected the offer of crutches in favor of the stick I was already using, because I really doubt I'd have gotten any.
After another 45 minute wait, smack under horrible flickering fluorescents bright enough to illuminate an operating room, a nurse carrying bandages spotted me sitting there with my leg propped up. It became obvious that there'd been a mix-up when she wrapped up my ankle and sent me off, telling me to take ibuprofen for a day or two if I needed it. I was absolutely gobsmacked, on top of already being overloaded to the point that I was having trouble stringing a sentence together. I bet the person with the minor ankle sprain was pleased to get my injection, though.
I was afraid of some kind of frustrating situation before I even went, since I do not have my medical interpreter (a.k.a. "Mom") here, but that went well beyond any expectation. I was extremely upset at myself for being unable to handle the situation better, which only helped send me over into a full meltdown episode--ah, the joys of seeking medical treatment while autistic. At least I managed to gimp out of the actual ER before I did so, or they'd probably have called for a psych consult, and/or had me arrested if I'd so much as touched anyone to keep them away from touching me while being touched actually hurt. (Hey, two serious meltdown episodes did get me hospitalized in '89 and again in '90. The first time they assumed I was on drugs, with my parents in serious denial about it.) So, I'm glad for that much. I still feel pretty bad about shrieking and bellowing at Ingvar, but I would not have done so had I been able to help it at all. It really does help to know now that I am not the (spoiled, manipulative, absolutely bonkers, etc.) raging monster I was led to believe I was, but do have uncontrollable reactions when my nervous system is overloaded past a certain point. It hadn't gotten to that point in years, thank goodness, since I know to avoid and deal with the overload now. Some of my relatives have continued to have frequent meltdowns as adults, and I feel more than a little sorry for them.
Yep, I actually did leave the ER with my ankle wrapped up, and without pain medication. Well, until I ripped the compression bandage off and threw it down in a hospital hallway. *shakes head* That was a rough night, but I did finally get to sleep and the sharp bone pain was much improved in the morning. Keeping off the knee did help the pain, unlike the previous night. Feeling like a complete dunce wasn't the least of it, even though I realize now that sometimes I do need an interpreter just as urgently as a Deaf person would. (Ingvar is not good with medical settings either, in his own way, so it's a bit of an interesting situation. I haven't gone to see a doctor when I've needed it, since I got back from VA last year, and I think he's needed it a time or two as well.) Luckily, I did have one dose of Codis left for Christmas Day, since it was not a good idea on my irritated stomach the night before.
My mom about died laughing at the idea of my limping away with the wrong joint bandaged up rather than saying anything, and Mamaw laughed so hard she turned purple because she is prone to doing precisely the same thing. There were a number of comments about its being a very good thing indeed that Dr. Shipman is not doing his rounds anymore. Mom's favorite cousin called and practically split her sides at the story, especially since she still needs to take her son (my age, almost exactly) and now his two kids to the doctor; he clams up in precisely the same way, and his wife absolutely refuses to enter any medical facility! (That got me chortling.) Tim also got to hear about it, and found it utterly hilarious. I may not be best pleased by my mother's apparent lack of understanding that other people may find it embarrassing if she passes along certain stories to absolutely everyone she encounters, but at least that incident did provide some (sympathetic) amusement all around. I'm not sure I really needed more evidence that nobody on either side of my family seems to be within ten miles of neurotypical (the one who is closest comes across as a bit eccentric to the rest), but that was also rather welcome. No wonder people only started taking exception to my "strange" behavior after I started school!
Yesterday I did hobble off on my stick in search of pain medication*, gullibly believing a television ad promising that Tesco Extra was, indeed, open on Boxing Day. Our nearest one was not, but did have a notice up directing customers to another pharmacy. So I hopped back on the 86 bus, bound for Ilford. Looking for that pharmacy in Cranbrook Road, I spotted an open Boots, so went in there instead. The pain meds available without a prescription here are not very strong (8mg codeine, as opposed to Tylenol 3's 30mg, and that's not very good for even moderate orthopedic pain), but it sure beats the hell out of what you can get back home, or in Sweden as we found out the hard way when my knee didn't like all the hiking around Stockholm. Once I was medicated, though, I felt enough better that I was overcome by all the After Christmas Sale signs in the town centre, and gimped off in search of a replacement coat for Ingvar's with the broken zipper. This was a mistake, as was standing up and cooking a beef roast with trimmings after I got home. I do have a hard time staying down, even when I should. :/
The knee is tolerable now, just as long as I keep off it as much as possible. I'm supposed to alternate cold and heat, though I haven't been keeping up with that so well. Unfortunately, I knew last night that there was absolutely no way I could hobble around work without even a walking stick for 6 or 7 hours, lifting and carrying things. Even if I were to say, "Sorry, I can only stay the scheduled four hours," it wouldn't work. That would be an unreasonable expection, to say the least. With any luck, it will be enough better tomorrow, but I have my doubts with an actual bruised kneecap. There's not much I can do about that, as I keep reminding myself!
I was freaking out enough about having to use the phone to call in last night (I am so tempted to try using TTY, to make important calls more tolerable/possible), I think that's at least half the reason Ingvar was kind enough to let me sleep and pop in Iceland on his way out this morning. (They haven't been ringing the phone here, so I'm assuming he did after all.) I still feel like kissing him for that. The sleep itself was quite a relief, since the last couple of nights weren't very restful. Part of the initial hurdle has been overcome, so I am fairly sure I can call in tomorrow, if need be, in spite of the basic hesitance to use the phone. I was even more hesitant since the guy in charge of grocery apparently waited until the busiest time of the year to take a coward's way out of his job, initially calling in sick, and then going completely incommunicado after a couple of days. That would leave me wary of people calling in for a while, oh yes. But, I did work with a noticeable case of the flu recently, so they're probably more likely to believe it's a real problem keeping me out. Keeping a low-paid job is not worth possibly doing more damage to that knee, at any rate, so there's even less point in worrying.
On a brighter note, Cucumber looks to be feeling back to normal today! Yay! The other two big Fiends weren't acting actively sick yet, but they have also perked up after a couple of days on medicated food. I think they caught something from the guppies, of which three of the original six have died from what looked like some weird bacterial thing. (I feel bad, because I didn't remember we still had the kanamycin until after Cucumber started acting funny in the same way the guppies started out doing. The antibiotic must still be good, at least.) The poor girl was just hanging out in one shady corner of the tank all Christmas Day, looking pitiful to the point that the other two kept swimming over to check on her. It was pretty touching, and a reminder of just what social creatures the goldfish are--and of what a good thing it is that those three get along so well! I'm so glad to have caught the illness in time.
Yesterday I started the remaining guppies on the medicated food, as well, and they have already perked up. None of them were dramatically sick-acting, but were apparently a bit under the weather like Skate and Lobsterback. (Hopefully the fin rot I started noticing on some of the guppy fry will go away, too, with their immune systems freed up some. Very clean water, with some eSHA 2000--pushed hard by the LFS--in it, has not helped as it should.) I used the same small net in the guppy tank and to fish chewed-on plant leaves out of the Fiends' tank, apparently not cleaning it well enough in between. This is an excellent prompt to start using better cross-contamination precautions (and buy enough nets/siphons/etc. to go around). I knew that was a good idea, but it had never been an issue before. When I feel better, I think I'll gimp out somewhere and buy more fish paraphernalia, which is a dangerous mission indeed for my pocketbook.
* Ingvar was on call--and on multiple conference calls--or he'd have ventured out instead.
The reason is rather annoying in a ridiculous way, though. We ended up seeing in Christmas from the local A&E/ER, after Little Miss Muppet here tripped over an empty water bottle and went flying, arc of descent broken by one kneecap against the edge of a nearby table. The table almost toppled before my upper body stopped it. Nary a drop of alcohol was involved, believe it or not.
Now, that kind of accident is not so unusual in Rachel Land, so I just continued hobbling around and trying to fix supper for ten or fifteen minutes, expecting the pain to improve. Then I thought it better to lie down and put a bag of frozen corn on it, again expecting the pain to improve. The pressure from the ice pack was hard to take, and the pain just got worse--with obvious bone pain--as did the immediate swelling from something bleeding in there. As much as I detest medical settings, having that knee looked at seemed like a good idea. Bearing in mind that I've had two ACL reconstructions along with an assortment of other orthopedic injuries, the pain level was fairly impressive. My pain tolerance is high enough anyway that I've had trouble being taken seriously, because my reactions apparently aren't anywhere near what a lot of people expect.
The hospital visit was about what you'd expect from an NHS hospital on Christmas Eve. (Frankly, I'd already determined that if the knee turned out to need surgery, I wasn't letting those jokers near it, but would have to figure out some way to pay to have it done back in VA. I've already had one knee surgery that wasn't all it could have been, and that was after interviewing surgeons to choose one--with references.) Neither one of us had been in the new hospital, which has been open for about a year, yet. Somehow, it already looks almost as run down inside as the Victorian pile it replaced. I must say, I was impressed again at just how much quicker checking in is when they aren't demanding reams of insurance information every time; this time the waiting room was not even busy, and we were taken back within half an hour of walking in. Oddly, the second reception window--where they take most of the information--did not have any chairs, nor even a shelf at a reasonable leaning height for people who can't stand up very well and have, erm, gone in to see about it. Average British heights still strike me as a bit short, but not nearly enough that a shelf at groin height to my short legs would be reasonable.
After we got into the treatment cubicle, the wait began. The place did not seem overly busy (yet) at just past supper time, and the personnel-to-patient ratio was at least 2:1 when we got there. Still, we were there until after midnight. At least half of it was a passive aggressive response to working that shift, I'd imagine. They kept bustling around the nursing station outside the cubicle, while completely ignoring the fact that I was vomiting. Part of that was from sensory overload and low blood sugar (not much lunch, no supper, stress), besides from the actual pain level. Ingvar had to dig a Forbidden Planet bag out of his backpack, after my hobbling in search of a toilet produced no results. They may well have assumed I was drunk, but that is still pretty unprofessional behavior. I saw one nurse smirking. Ingvar offered multiple times to go and remind them that we'd been waiting forever, but I figured that would only make the wait longer, under the circumstances.
The doctor I saw was OK, at least. It turned out that the kneecap is not broken as I'd suspected--a huge relief--but he did not act as if I were wasting their precious time. The symptoms do fit a bone bruise. I really hope I didn't blow another ligament too, because the joint did look and feel a lot looser than usual when he tested it, though he didn't seem concerned. (That knee had a much tighter ACL job than the other, even done 10 years before. He probably expected looser results, as a couple of different orthopods have been pleasant surprised.) He seemed appalled that I had the dry heaves from pain (which had had time to amplify, so that I was also getting burning jolts of pain up and down that femur and tibia, and both feet--sometimes I really dislike the way my nervous system is wired), and promised an injection since I probably couldn't keep tablets down. And we waited. The doctor came back around, surprised we were still there, and again promised pain meds (with some to take home for the next couple of days) and a compression bandage. It's a good thing I rejected the offer of crutches in favor of the stick I was already using, because I really doubt I'd have gotten any.
After another 45 minute wait, smack under horrible flickering fluorescents bright enough to illuminate an operating room, a nurse carrying bandages spotted me sitting there with my leg propped up. It became obvious that there'd been a mix-up when she wrapped up my ankle and sent me off, telling me to take ibuprofen for a day or two if I needed it. I was absolutely gobsmacked, on top of already being overloaded to the point that I was having trouble stringing a sentence together. I bet the person with the minor ankle sprain was pleased to get my injection, though.
I was afraid of some kind of frustrating situation before I even went, since I do not have my medical interpreter (a.k.a. "Mom") here, but that went well beyond any expectation. I was extremely upset at myself for being unable to handle the situation better, which only helped send me over into a full meltdown episode--ah, the joys of seeking medical treatment while autistic. At least I managed to gimp out of the actual ER before I did so, or they'd probably have called for a psych consult, and/or had me arrested if I'd so much as touched anyone to keep them away from touching me while being touched actually hurt. (Hey, two serious meltdown episodes did get me hospitalized in '89 and again in '90. The first time they assumed I was on drugs, with my parents in serious denial about it.) So, I'm glad for that much. I still feel pretty bad about shrieking and bellowing at Ingvar, but I would not have done so had I been able to help it at all. It really does help to know now that I am not the (spoiled, manipulative, absolutely bonkers, etc.) raging monster I was led to believe I was, but do have uncontrollable reactions when my nervous system is overloaded past a certain point. It hadn't gotten to that point in years, thank goodness, since I know to avoid and deal with the overload now. Some of my relatives have continued to have frequent meltdowns as adults, and I feel more than a little sorry for them.
Yep, I actually did leave the ER with my ankle wrapped up, and without pain medication. Well, until I ripped the compression bandage off and threw it down in a hospital hallway. *shakes head* That was a rough night, but I did finally get to sleep and the sharp bone pain was much improved in the morning. Keeping off the knee did help the pain, unlike the previous night. Feeling like a complete dunce wasn't the least of it, even though I realize now that sometimes I do need an interpreter just as urgently as a Deaf person would. (Ingvar is not good with medical settings either, in his own way, so it's a bit of an interesting situation. I haven't gone to see a doctor when I've needed it, since I got back from VA last year, and I think he's needed it a time or two as well.) Luckily, I did have one dose of Codis left for Christmas Day, since it was not a good idea on my irritated stomach the night before.
My mom about died laughing at the idea of my limping away with the wrong joint bandaged up rather than saying anything, and Mamaw laughed so hard she turned purple because she is prone to doing precisely the same thing. There were a number of comments about its being a very good thing indeed that Dr. Shipman is not doing his rounds anymore. Mom's favorite cousin called and practically split her sides at the story, especially since she still needs to take her son (my age, almost exactly) and now his two kids to the doctor; he clams up in precisely the same way, and his wife absolutely refuses to enter any medical facility! (That got me chortling.) Tim also got to hear about it, and found it utterly hilarious. I may not be best pleased by my mother's apparent lack of understanding that other people may find it embarrassing if she passes along certain stories to absolutely everyone she encounters, but at least that incident did provide some (sympathetic) amusement all around. I'm not sure I really needed more evidence that nobody on either side of my family seems to be within ten miles of neurotypical (the one who is closest comes across as a bit eccentric to the rest), but that was also rather welcome. No wonder people only started taking exception to my "strange" behavior after I started school!
Yesterday I did hobble off on my stick in search of pain medication*, gullibly believing a television ad promising that Tesco Extra was, indeed, open on Boxing Day. Our nearest one was not, but did have a notice up directing customers to another pharmacy. So I hopped back on the 86 bus, bound for Ilford. Looking for that pharmacy in Cranbrook Road, I spotted an open Boots, so went in there instead. The pain meds available without a prescription here are not very strong (8mg codeine, as opposed to Tylenol 3's 30mg, and that's not very good for even moderate orthopedic pain), but it sure beats the hell out of what you can get back home, or in Sweden as we found out the hard way when my knee didn't like all the hiking around Stockholm. Once I was medicated, though, I felt enough better that I was overcome by all the After Christmas Sale signs in the town centre, and gimped off in search of a replacement coat for Ingvar's with the broken zipper. This was a mistake, as was standing up and cooking a beef roast with trimmings after I got home. I do have a hard time staying down, even when I should. :/
The knee is tolerable now, just as long as I keep off it as much as possible. I'm supposed to alternate cold and heat, though I haven't been keeping up with that so well. Unfortunately, I knew last night that there was absolutely no way I could hobble around work without even a walking stick for 6 or 7 hours, lifting and carrying things. Even if I were to say, "Sorry, I can only stay the scheduled four hours," it wouldn't work. That would be an unreasonable expection, to say the least. With any luck, it will be enough better tomorrow, but I have my doubts with an actual bruised kneecap. There's not much I can do about that, as I keep reminding myself!
I was freaking out enough about having to use the phone to call in last night (I am so tempted to try using TTY, to make important calls more tolerable/possible), I think that's at least half the reason Ingvar was kind enough to let me sleep and pop in Iceland on his way out this morning. (They haven't been ringing the phone here, so I'm assuming he did after all.) I still feel like kissing him for that. The sleep itself was quite a relief, since the last couple of nights weren't very restful. Part of the initial hurdle has been overcome, so I am fairly sure I can call in tomorrow, if need be, in spite of the basic hesitance to use the phone. I was even more hesitant since the guy in charge of grocery apparently waited until the busiest time of the year to take a coward's way out of his job, initially calling in sick, and then going completely incommunicado after a couple of days. That would leave me wary of people calling in for a while, oh yes. But, I did work with a noticeable case of the flu recently, so they're probably more likely to believe it's a real problem keeping me out. Keeping a low-paid job is not worth possibly doing more damage to that knee, at any rate, so there's even less point in worrying.
On a brighter note, Cucumber looks to be feeling back to normal today! Yay! The other two big Fiends weren't acting actively sick yet, but they have also perked up after a couple of days on medicated food. I think they caught something from the guppies, of which three of the original six have died from what looked like some weird bacterial thing. (I feel bad, because I didn't remember we still had the kanamycin until after Cucumber started acting funny in the same way the guppies started out doing. The antibiotic must still be good, at least.) The poor girl was just hanging out in one shady corner of the tank all Christmas Day, looking pitiful to the point that the other two kept swimming over to check on her. It was pretty touching, and a reminder of just what social creatures the goldfish are--and of what a good thing it is that those three get along so well! I'm so glad to have caught the illness in time.
Yesterday I started the remaining guppies on the medicated food, as well, and they have already perked up. None of them were dramatically sick-acting, but were apparently a bit under the weather like Skate and Lobsterback. (Hopefully the fin rot I started noticing on some of the guppy fry will go away, too, with their immune systems freed up some. Very clean water, with some eSHA 2000--pushed hard by the LFS--in it, has not helped as it should.) I used the same small net in the guppy tank and to fish chewed-on plant leaves out of the Fiends' tank, apparently not cleaning it well enough in between. This is an excellent prompt to start using better cross-contamination precautions (and buy enough nets/siphons/etc. to go around). I knew that was a good idea, but it had never been an issue before. When I feel better, I think I'll gimp out somewhere and buy more fish paraphernalia, which is a dangerous mission indeed for my pocketbook.
* Ingvar was on call--and on multiple conference calls--or he'd have ventured out instead.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-12-27 02:06 pm (UTC)And, yes, when you didn't even stir as EvilAlarm went off, I thought letting you sleep was a good thing.
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Date: 2007-12-27 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-27 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-06 04:57 am (UTC)Well that was me, and Istumbled upon your name again via the "hashafp" community.
I'm living in Essex now too and am living with and getting married to
Hope you don't mind me re-adding you after all this time of my seeming to be dead :)