My roommate/daughter and I spent a weekend slinging fat bags of red mulch, grooming the front of the house we rent. The following Monday I was to watch my granddaughter, and when I climbed the twelve steps from my basement lair, I bent to raise my pantleg to show Lauren my leg. My daughter immediately panicked, diagnosing my red and grossly swollen leg as “cellulitis.” I called my doctor that morning, leaving a message for her while my three-year-old granddaughter demanded my attention. I left a message with the nurse, detailing my condition. Within the hour, the nurse called back, saying that I better hie my butt (and leg) into the office.
I used to be a notorious slacker when it came to my personal health management. That cavalier attitude toward my physical condition culminated in a catastrophic event when an ulcer chewed its way through my stomach lining and perforated my duodenum. When the duodenum burst, I was 72 hours away from death, an event prevented by my boss, who forbade me to go home to drink water and moan on the floor of my apartment. I called my eldest child from the hospital, and she does not let me forget that. When I found out about the problem in my leg on April 27th, I told Lisa about it that evening; she was irate that I had not told her sooner.
Dr. Sarah Curry (see “I Love My Doctor,” The Weekly View, January 19th, 2017) saw me at 9:30 on Tuesday, April 27th; on that day she sent me to get an ultrasound and had me stay at the facility until she got the results and could advise me. During her initial examination of my swollen right leg, she considered several possibilities (none of which was cellulitis) but the ultrasound exam confirmed that what I had was a deep vein thrombosis: a blood clot. When Lauren’s BFF, who is a nurse, heard the diagnosis, she professed surprise: “You walk so much,” she said. Dr. Curry got me a blood-thinning medication that same day, and told me that, within a week, the clot should start dissolving. She also told me that I could continue to walk, to ascend and descend the 12 steps, but to avoid strenuous exercise (no banging about bags of red mulch.)
I have been careful not to aggravate my blood clot and have named it “Clottie.” After walking, my leg will swell, and I will sit and elevate it. I have a glass typing table that I can raise and lower, and my granddaughter loves to press the lever to raise it for me. I plop my leg atop a pillow and play music for Myah and watch her dance. “Rubberband Man” by The Spinners is her current favorite, followed closely by Goofy singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.”
My insurance policy covers an annual visit by a nurse, who comes to my home. I avail myself of every opportunity for those visits, and do not miss annual visits to my primary provider. I am appropriately cautious with “Clottie” who, though it has slowed me, will not bring me down. I place my bags of mulch in one of my granddaughter’s wagons and trundle it to the planting place; I slit the bag, and using Myah’s “That’s MY rake,” I spread it carefully to places that the squirrels will dig up.
I’ve put a light-hearted touch on a serious issue, but my eldest child is on the job of pecking me on the head, checking to make sure I don’t skip medical check-ups. “Clottie” won’t win.
cjon3acd@att.net