So for the last three days the bottom of my left heel has been hurting really bad.
And not just in terms of the level of pain. The kind of pain was really disturbing too. Like I was walking directly on skin and bone.
Yeah. More about that later.
I was honestly scared to look at it myself. Scared of what I might see. So I did the manly and responsible thing and made my wound care nurse look at it instead.
She went, “Oh my!”, which is nurse for “HOLY SHIT!”
So off to the ER I went. The Wound Care nurse said I should go to the newly moved Urgent Patient Care Clinic, but I have no idea how one decides whether one’s problem is an emergency or merely urge, so to the ER I went.
Possibly a bad call. Because it was packed.
So I was there a very very long time. In Hospital Mode, so the first four hours were not so bad. In Hospital Mode, I lightly doze , and that makes the time pass faster and wth less wear on my nerves.
When I was still in the waiting room of the ER, there was this overweight lady who seemed to be having a hard time of it. In fact it seemed like the was freaking out. I know a panic attack when I see one.
And I wish I had mustered up the wherewithal to say something to her.
Something like : “Are you okay? Do you need some help? Do you need me to call a nurse for you, dear? Are you maybe freaked out by this loud bright place? You know what? Me too. I always hate being here. It’s all too much! Listen, is someone coming to get you? I notice you don’t have your shoes on… lovely feet, by the way. Listen dear, it’s all going to be fine. The doctors are going to take care of you and keep you healthy then you’ll be able to go back home. Okay? ”
Dunno if it would have help. She might have started screaming the minute I said a single word to her.
But my soul longed to reach out and comfort that poor woman. Her family should not have left her all alone in the ER like that.
Then there was my nemesis for the afternoon. Let’s call him the Little Raja, or LJ. He looked to be in his mid 20’s.
Everything was fine. We were all chilling in the IV lounge peacefully – me, LP, and his mother (early 40s amd gorgeous), who I will call Beleaguered Servant (BS).
But around 4 pm the price apparently could hold back his truculent douchiness no longer and he started actually whining to his mommy.
I’m talking Eric Cartman here.
“Moooooom! This is taking FOREVER! I have things I need to DO! I’m just going to leave, they’re never going to see us anyway!”
Truth bomb, kid, and I am deadly serious : grown ups DO NOT WHINE. Ever. You lose your whining privs at puberty, and that’s being generous.
There is nothing more appallingly infantile than whining to get what you want.
Seriously. Hard adult baby fetishists are saying, “Dude, sack the fuck up. ”
But the interesting thing was that the longer he whines on and forced his mother to *beg* him not to endanger his life by leaving (head injury) there more this angry father voice made me want to go Red Foreman on this little fucker.
“Listen, you entitled little puke, you’re here because your mother is worried and you are going to stand up, man up, and shut your fucking mouth before it has to be wired shut by a surgeon. You are dragging your mother through hell with your selfish behaviour and it’s going to stop RIGHT NOW or I swear to god I wil beat you so bad it’ll take every doctor here to put you back together again!”
Damn. DIdn’t know I had that in me. Not surprised, though.
More after the break.
I can’t do this
I just…. can’t. That’s it. I give up.
I just can’t cope with my life as it is right now. If I keep trying to do it on my own, I will keep dying. Things like the infection on my foot will keep happening and one of these days they will gang up on me and finish me off, or worse, just cripple me to the point where my body is a living tomb and I am truly in Hell.
And that’s if the brain damage from my sleep apnea doesn’t get me first. One day I will have a TIA from smothering thousands of times a night every night and end up a goober in a wheelchair who only has the minimum number of brain cells left to remember back when he was ever so smart and did jack shit with it before it went away.
I don’t have what it needs to solve these problems and I am sick of trying without making progress and I am doubly sick of pretending that I will get better any day now.
It’s not going to happen, people. Your foxy friend is fucked. He’s going to die stupid young in a stupid way to cap of a stupid worthless fucking life, and all you poor people with the misfortune to love me can do is watch as I slowly self-destruct.
I know it’s not what you want to hear and trust me, it’s not what I want to be saying, but it’s the truth.
My only hope is to get help. My own resources can’t get me out of this mess. I’m too sick, I’m too crazy, I’m too weak.
There are no winning hands in this deck of cards.
So my own hope is to call in help from outside myself. And I mean serious help. The kind that does the things I can’t do for myself, like getting my blood glucose monitor working and my CPAP machine properly adjusted.
The kind that can help me stay focused and driven towards my goals, even if that means having to bitch at me when I am being difficult.
The kind that will keep on me like a shadow on a tall rock at high noon about my health and not let me pull any bullshit tricks.
Someone to be my backbone. My skeleton. My second skin.
Otherwise it is dirt city for this little red fox. And I will have died the way I lived :
Stupidly, despite it all.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.