BOO-BOOS, BATS,
& A BUG
You may be wondering where I’ve been for several months. If you read my blog “Dos and Don'ts With Doctors,” you will know my propensity for accidents. That continues even as I am closing in on my 75th birthday. So, let me fill you in.
I have had a run of bad luck in the health field since early last February. This will be a long blog, so you should get something to drink or make a pit stop before you begin.
I had two knee replacements: one in 2017 and one in 2022. Both were successful, but the 2017 one became an issue. I have grown a bone spur, and a tendon rubs on it. It’s annoying, but on a pain scale, it really never goes above a two. Then, sometime in the middle of February, it suddenly became an 8, making it difficult to walk or stand for a long time. Finally, after about two weeks, using my mantra of “Suck it up, and it will go away after a while,” the mantra no longer worked. Nor did my knee work. So, I called my orthopedic surgeon and went to see him, and since, at my age, I would rather not have surgery, he prescribed Physical Therapy (which I call “Physical Torture”), so I decided to give it a try.
The Tuesday after I saw him, and I had not even had a chance to start PT, I was walking through a dimly lit parking garage. Instead of looking down, I was looking at my car, parked just a few feet from me. I did not see the speed bump before me and stumbled, twisting the boo-boo knee like a Category 5 tornado. I screamed and was frozen with pain, and I could barely walk to the car. I was sure I’d torn my ACL.
As soon as I got home, I called my orthopedist and scheduled an emergency visit. I had to have The Hubs drive me because I couldn’t put any pressure on the pedals without letting forward with a stream of expletives that would shame a pissed-off pro football player.
I limped into the office and filled out the form they have you do at every visit. When it came to the question, “On a 1 to 10, 10 being most painful, what is your level of pain?” I wrote down “12.”
After the doc examined me, he diagnosed my malady as “an angry bursa.” I never knew a bursa could have emotions like a person, but apparently, mine was positively furious.
The remedy for this was to put my leg in what he called an “immobilizer.”
Here is a picture of what it looked like.
Yes, those are my fuzzy Christmas Sox.
I have had a run of bad luck in the health field since early last February. This will be a long blog, so you should get something to drink or make a pit stop before you begin.
I had two knee replacements: one in 2017 and one in 2022. Both were successful, but the 2017 one became an issue. I have grown a bone spur, and a tendon rubs on it. It’s annoying, but on a pain scale, it really never goes above a two. Then, sometime in the middle of February, it suddenly became an 8, making it difficult to walk or stand for a long time. Finally, after about two weeks, using my mantra of “Suck it up, and it will go away after a while,” the mantra no longer worked. Nor did my knee work. So, I called my orthopedic surgeon and went to see him, and since, at my age, I would rather not have surgery, he prescribed Physical Therapy (which I call “Physical Torture”), so I decided to give it a try.
The Tuesday after I saw him, and I had not even had a chance to start PT, I was walking through a dimly lit parking garage. Instead of looking down, I was looking at my car, parked just a few feet from me. I did not see the speed bump before me and stumbled, twisting the boo-boo knee like a Category 5 tornado. I screamed and was frozen with pain, and I could barely walk to the car. I was sure I’d torn my ACL.
As soon as I got home, I called my orthopedist and scheduled an emergency visit. I had to have The Hubs drive me because I couldn’t put any pressure on the pedals without letting forward with a stream of expletives that would shame a pissed-off pro football player.
I limped into the office and filled out the form they have you do at every visit. When it came to the question, “On a 1 to 10, 10 being most painful, what is your level of pain?” I wrote down “12.”
After the doc examined me, he diagnosed my malady as “an angry bursa.” I never knew a bursa could have emotions like a person, but apparently, mine was positively furious.
The remedy for this was to put my leg in what he called an “immobilizer.”
Here is a picture of what it looked like.
Yes, those are my fuzzy Christmas Sox.
I was told to wear it 24/7, except in the shower. It was truly a demon device. I decided to cheat a little, so when I went downstairs to put on my pajamas, I took it off and carried it with me. It was difficult going downstairs wearing it—actually, it was difficult wearing it everywhere. Try sitting on a commode with your leg straight out in front of you. Sorry, TMI.
Somehow, I missed the bottom step, flipped over, and landed on my back. My head became an object of propulsion and smacked into the wall. The Hubs heard the crash and came running up to me, saying, “Are you okay?”
I closed my eyes and asked him, meekly (and I am NEVER meek!), “Just tell me if my head is in the wall.”
He took a breath and said, “Um. Yes.”
Here’s the picture of the wall:
Somehow, I missed the bottom step, flipped over, and landed on my back. My head became an object of propulsion and smacked into the wall. The Hubs heard the crash and came running up to me, saying, “Are you okay?”
I closed my eyes and asked him, meekly (and I am NEVER meek!), “Just tell me if my head is in the wall.”
He took a breath and said, “Um. Yes.”
Here’s the picture of the wall:
Its proportions are not really visible in the picture, but let’s say that I managed to land between the studs, which are about 16” apart. That is about where the edges of the hole are. Not only that, my hair had a healthy dose of installation on it. I am glad that the builder cut costs by only putting an inch or two of the pink stuff. It took two shampoos to get it all out.
BUT! Little did I know I was about to hit the trifecta of knee problems.
I was one of the volunteers at a send-off for some of our Marines deploying at Camp Pendleton. Of course, the military has its own schedules for departure, and it’s never, in all the times I’ve been at one of these events, the time they tell us. We provide sandwiches, snacks, something for the very long plane ride, etc. We who were helping were told to arrive at “Oh dark thirty,” which is 12:30 a.m. Of course, as are the Marines, I am always early, so I arrived at Zero Hundred hours (midnight). The battalions were slated to depart on the buses to go to the airfield at 0300 (by now, you have figured out that this is 3:00 a.m.)
We were all hanging around the tables set up to feed everyone when a bunch of bats came out of nowhere. They proceeded to dive-bomb us. In my effort to shoo them away from me, I, once again, stumbled and landed hard on the tarmac on what, at that point, was the “good” knee.
I really did hope that no one noticed my crash and burn, but several burly Marines ran over to me and brought a medic with them. They were concerned that I hit my head, but I told them no, that was LAST week. Two of them helped me to my feet (also, good news, since the last time I did a face-plant at the base, it took FOUR Marines to get me up.)
When no one was looking, I rolled up the leg of my jeans to see that I had not only given myself a nasty bleeding rug burn of several inches but also a hematoma the size of a softball. It was so large that it was pressing against my baggy jeans making them tight in the leg. My friends put ice on it, but since I was extremely uncomfortable (read: it hurt like a mofo) they told me to go home; they had everything under control. I hit the road just after 0300 hours and learned that, in true military fashion, our Marines didn’t get on the buses until the sun was coming up, about 6 a.m.
No photo accompanies this war wound (I did ask if I was eligible for a Purple Heart) because this one was too embarrassing to record for posterity.
As luck would have it, I already had an appointment with my orthopedist the next day for a follow-up visit for the original knee, since we decided to try a cortisone shot to fix the boo-boo bursa. When the nurse showed me into the exam room, I said I hoped the doc would look at the other knee. With her back to me, she told me that they only look at one knee per appointment. As she turned around, she saw that my pant leg had already been pulled up. I knew my knee was not terribly attractive, but I wasn’t prepared for her to clutch her hand to her chest and gasp. Without hesitation, she said, “He’ll look at that one, too.”
After several X-rays, he cleaned up the wound, which I didn’t think was really all that bad, but he wrapped it like he’d just finished surgery and closed a gaping hole. He couldn’t decide if I had fractured my kneecap or if I’d had that crack for years.
I told him I probably had it from when I fractured my patella at age 5…from a fall.
The good news from all these incidents is that I was surprisingly able to walk with PT and laser treatments, and we were about to leave for a River Cruise in France, which was the goal with all these visits. The hematoma (thank God I wasn’t going on a Caribbean cruise that would require wearing shorts and bathing suits!) was still ugly and very sensitive, but I did suck it up and was okay. The mantra worked that time.
With the knee(s) under control, I was excited to go to France.
We started in Paris, which The Hubs and I had both visited before, but we weren’t prepared for all the road closures and renovations in preparation for the Summer Olympics. This was early April.
It seemed that the traffic situation, which is never good at any time of year, was on steroids. We sat at one point, trying to get through an intersection, for about 20 minutes. The scary thing was that people started going around the line of cars by crossing into oncoming traffic, which made for an exciting show to watch from the bus we were sitting in. We both must have said, “There is no way they will be ready for the Olympics” a million times.
My theory was that Paris would do whatever I did when I had company: take everything messy in our house, put it in one room, and close the door. I figured the Olympic Committee would do the same thing: take all the equipment, the fencing, etc., pile it into one arrondissement, and somehow close it off.
We boarded our first leg of the cruise, and things were great until about the third day.
In the middle of the night, I became nauseous and had to make several trips to the head. For the sake of brevity (and this blog is far too long anyway), this continued for the entire trip, which was 12 more days. The Hubs visited the local pharmacy as his first attraction to see in every port of call. We were never docked for longer than a day, the positive of which meant seeing many beautiful little towns along the Seine and then the Rhone (many from our stateroom), but I couldn’t go too far without needing facilities. I was eating Imodium like Tic Tacs. I managed to see most of what I wanted, but not without circling all the local public restrooms on the maps instead of the historical sites.
I texted my doctor and asked her to have a prescription waiting for me when I got home, but because she is wise, she insisted that I see her before she prescribed something. This was Week 2 of The Plague.
We got home very late on a Wednesday, jet-lagged and really feeling sick. My doc had an appointment for me the following day. I had not driven in almost a month and was in sorry shape. I went into the parking garage (the same one where I had the knee mishap with the speed bump), and as I turned to pull into a parking spot, I slightly sideswiped a brand-new Tesla in the next place. The car alarm went off. I jumped out of the car and waited to see if the owner had come out of the building. Finally, the horn stopped, but no one appeared. I had a pen but no paper.
I tore out the last page of my car’s service manual (whoever reads them anyway? And certainly not every page.) I wrote a note of apology, including my name and phone number, saying that I would be in Room 201 with my doctor. As soon as I left it, a young woman came out and saw me and the note. I was shaking (I’m sure it was because I was sick, since this was not a rollover or something like that.) I apologized profusely, giving the excuse that I was sick (which is why I was there, to begin with) and was also very jet-lagged. Then, humiliation of all humiliations, I started to cry.
We exchanged our information, and she thought it would be something that could easily be buffed out. I offered to pay out of pocket to avoid filing a claim with the insurance companies. It seemed very little damage, with none to Betty the Ninja (my car) except for a minuscule speck of the color of the Tesla.
Here’s that picture:
BUT! Little did I know I was about to hit the trifecta of knee problems.
I was one of the volunteers at a send-off for some of our Marines deploying at Camp Pendleton. Of course, the military has its own schedules for departure, and it’s never, in all the times I’ve been at one of these events, the time they tell us. We provide sandwiches, snacks, something for the very long plane ride, etc. We who were helping were told to arrive at “Oh dark thirty,” which is 12:30 a.m. Of course, as are the Marines, I am always early, so I arrived at Zero Hundred hours (midnight). The battalions were slated to depart on the buses to go to the airfield at 0300 (by now, you have figured out that this is 3:00 a.m.)
We were all hanging around the tables set up to feed everyone when a bunch of bats came out of nowhere. They proceeded to dive-bomb us. In my effort to shoo them away from me, I, once again, stumbled and landed hard on the tarmac on what, at that point, was the “good” knee.
I really did hope that no one noticed my crash and burn, but several burly Marines ran over to me and brought a medic with them. They were concerned that I hit my head, but I told them no, that was LAST week. Two of them helped me to my feet (also, good news, since the last time I did a face-plant at the base, it took FOUR Marines to get me up.)
When no one was looking, I rolled up the leg of my jeans to see that I had not only given myself a nasty bleeding rug burn of several inches but also a hematoma the size of a softball. It was so large that it was pressing against my baggy jeans making them tight in the leg. My friends put ice on it, but since I was extremely uncomfortable (read: it hurt like a mofo) they told me to go home; they had everything under control. I hit the road just after 0300 hours and learned that, in true military fashion, our Marines didn’t get on the buses until the sun was coming up, about 6 a.m.
No photo accompanies this war wound (I did ask if I was eligible for a Purple Heart) because this one was too embarrassing to record for posterity.
As luck would have it, I already had an appointment with my orthopedist the next day for a follow-up visit for the original knee, since we decided to try a cortisone shot to fix the boo-boo bursa. When the nurse showed me into the exam room, I said I hoped the doc would look at the other knee. With her back to me, she told me that they only look at one knee per appointment. As she turned around, she saw that my pant leg had already been pulled up. I knew my knee was not terribly attractive, but I wasn’t prepared for her to clutch her hand to her chest and gasp. Without hesitation, she said, “He’ll look at that one, too.”
After several X-rays, he cleaned up the wound, which I didn’t think was really all that bad, but he wrapped it like he’d just finished surgery and closed a gaping hole. He couldn’t decide if I had fractured my kneecap or if I’d had that crack for years.
I told him I probably had it from when I fractured my patella at age 5…from a fall.
The good news from all these incidents is that I was surprisingly able to walk with PT and laser treatments, and we were about to leave for a River Cruise in France, which was the goal with all these visits. The hematoma (thank God I wasn’t going on a Caribbean cruise that would require wearing shorts and bathing suits!) was still ugly and very sensitive, but I did suck it up and was okay. The mantra worked that time.
With the knee(s) under control, I was excited to go to France.
We started in Paris, which The Hubs and I had both visited before, but we weren’t prepared for all the road closures and renovations in preparation for the Summer Olympics. This was early April.
It seemed that the traffic situation, which is never good at any time of year, was on steroids. We sat at one point, trying to get through an intersection, for about 20 minutes. The scary thing was that people started going around the line of cars by crossing into oncoming traffic, which made for an exciting show to watch from the bus we were sitting in. We both must have said, “There is no way they will be ready for the Olympics” a million times.
My theory was that Paris would do whatever I did when I had company: take everything messy in our house, put it in one room, and close the door. I figured the Olympic Committee would do the same thing: take all the equipment, the fencing, etc., pile it into one arrondissement, and somehow close it off.
We boarded our first leg of the cruise, and things were great until about the third day.
In the middle of the night, I became nauseous and had to make several trips to the head. For the sake of brevity (and this blog is far too long anyway), this continued for the entire trip, which was 12 more days. The Hubs visited the local pharmacy as his first attraction to see in every port of call. We were never docked for longer than a day, the positive of which meant seeing many beautiful little towns along the Seine and then the Rhone (many from our stateroom), but I couldn’t go too far without needing facilities. I was eating Imodium like Tic Tacs. I managed to see most of what I wanted, but not without circling all the local public restrooms on the maps instead of the historical sites.
I texted my doctor and asked her to have a prescription waiting for me when I got home, but because she is wise, she insisted that I see her before she prescribed something. This was Week 2 of The Plague.
We got home very late on a Wednesday, jet-lagged and really feeling sick. My doc had an appointment for me the following day. I had not driven in almost a month and was in sorry shape. I went into the parking garage (the same one where I had the knee mishap with the speed bump), and as I turned to pull into a parking spot, I slightly sideswiped a brand-new Tesla in the next place. The car alarm went off. I jumped out of the car and waited to see if the owner had come out of the building. Finally, the horn stopped, but no one appeared. I had a pen but no paper.
I tore out the last page of my car’s service manual (whoever reads them anyway? And certainly not every page.) I wrote a note of apology, including my name and phone number, saying that I would be in Room 201 with my doctor. As soon as I left it, a young woman came out and saw me and the note. I was shaking (I’m sure it was because I was sick, since this was not a rollover or something like that.) I apologized profusely, giving the excuse that I was sick (which is why I was there, to begin with) and was also very jet-lagged. Then, humiliation of all humiliations, I started to cry.
We exchanged our information, and she thought it would be something that could easily be buffed out. I offered to pay out of pocket to avoid filing a claim with the insurance companies. It seemed very little damage, with none to Betty the Ninja (my car) except for a minuscule speck of the color of the Tesla.
Here’s that picture:
There is no happy ending. The Tesla is not a vehicle ready to be reckoned with. Ultimately, the little, teeny scrape (which it was!) cost $7,000. And I did have to tell the insurance company.
Really? Does that look like $7,000? You can barely see the scratch just below the headlight.
This blog has gone so long that I won’t tell you about my doctor having me provide a “specimen” to the lab to see what was causing this intestinal situation. That experience alone could be another blog in itself.
So after seven weeks of The Plague and after three rounds of antibiotics, including two of Cipro, which is prescribed to cure Anthrax, The Plague left my body.
Apparently, the bacteria I ingested came from contaminated water (I always drink bottled water when I travel after a similar incident in Cancun years ago) or ice (the only place that I had ice that was not on the ship was a Coke in Paris) undercooked chicken (I commented to The Hubs that most of the food on this particular cruise was very dry and didn’t even remember having any chicken at all) or raw eggs (and I never eat eggs sunny side up, but did have poached eggs one morning.)
In the end, The Plague was a mystery, and the cause was not to be solved. But the upside was that I went on a cruise in France and lost 8 pounds.
Who goes on a cruise (a) on a cruise and (b) to France and loses weight??
That would be me.
Really? Does that look like $7,000? You can barely see the scratch just below the headlight.
This blog has gone so long that I won’t tell you about my doctor having me provide a “specimen” to the lab to see what was causing this intestinal situation. That experience alone could be another blog in itself.
So after seven weeks of The Plague and after three rounds of antibiotics, including two of Cipro, which is prescribed to cure Anthrax, The Plague left my body.
Apparently, the bacteria I ingested came from contaminated water (I always drink bottled water when I travel after a similar incident in Cancun years ago) or ice (the only place that I had ice that was not on the ship was a Coke in Paris) undercooked chicken (I commented to The Hubs that most of the food on this particular cruise was very dry and didn’t even remember having any chicken at all) or raw eggs (and I never eat eggs sunny side up, but did have poached eggs one morning.)
In the end, The Plague was a mystery, and the cause was not to be solved. But the upside was that I went on a cruise in France and lost 8 pounds.
Who goes on a cruise (a) on a cruise and (b) to France and loses weight??
That would be me.