My Streak of Wimp

{This post is Part 2 of a very involved story about my feet. If you think you won't possibly be interested in reading about my feet, you are probably correct.  If that is the case, don't click here to read the first part of the story, just check back in a few days when I'll probably have a recipe for something sweet or fall-ish posted or more likely a picture of a child making a goofy face or reading a book.  If you are one of those curious folks who delight in strange tales of horror, click here for the first part of the story and then continue reading below.}

I have a terribly wide "streak of wimp" running through my veins. This streak goes on pure parade in the presence of needles which is why my parents have had to scoop my limp body off of many a doctor's office floor.  This has caused my Mom, the registered nurse, no small amount of embarrassment.  I remember the time my Dad told me if I didn't pass out when I got a shot that I was due to receive that afternoon, he'd bring me a treat when he came home from work.  Happily, I survived the shot without passing out and even succeeded in driving myself home from the doctor's office.  When my Dad got home, he produced a BlowPop sucker from his pocket and awarded me for my bravery as promised.  I think that the reason for my shot that day, was to get the necessary boosters for immunizations to enter college.

Once, I came down with a bad cold/flu and so decided to stop in to the local "quick care" to see what they could do for me.  "Well," the doctor said, "your best option is the shot, it will get you better faster than anything else."  The nurse loaded up the syringe and gave me the shot. It did not hurt at all. Unfortunately my "streak of wimp" had already been launched and down I went.  I didn't actually pass out, but came so close two or three times in the next few minutes that it became obvious to all involved that I would have to find alternative transport back to Mom and Dad's.  Since my Mom was at home watching my children at the time, she was unavailable to assist me.  My Man (a fellow sufferer of needle aversion)  wasn't able to travel home with us, so being a few states away, he was not an option.  The task of my retrieval this time, fell to my Dad.  No BlowPop for me that day!

My last trip to the office of our family doctor had been rewarding and blissfully uneventful.  The Physician's Assistant listened to my complaints about my heels, asked me a few questions, and said, "You've got a classic case of plantar faciitis."

Google Health reports that, plantar faciitis is the "inflammation (irritation and swelling with presence of extra immune cells) of the plantar fascia can cause heel pain and make walking difficult." 
I took great comfort in the word classic and in the treatment which consisted of two prescriptions and instructions to roll a frozen water bottle under my heel throughout the day.  After three or four days of medication and iced water bottles, I was as good as new.  Then I finished the medication, and my pain came back, this time seeming worse than before because I now remembered how it felt to be pain free.

So, you can imagine the mental earthquake that took place when I called the Doctor's office to ask if there might be a way to continue on the medicine that had helped my feet so much the week before, and the kind receptionist, who is also a friend of mine, said, "He's going to want to put Cortisone in your heels." My friend asked the good doctor if I could have more medication and then had the nurse call me and tell me that there was an opening available in two days for my "procedure".  Part of my quaking brain was hoping that the "procedure" for getting the Cortisone into my heels was a "rub-on" cream or something, but the other part of my brain was alerting my "streak of wimp" to strike up the band because it was time for the parade to begin...

I Blame the Flip-Flops

My son just kissed me good night on his way to bed. It's a bit late for an eleven-year-old to be going to bed, but he's been doing a noble duty: cleaning the kitchen.  He and his dad cleaned up a very messy kitchen while I sat on the couch and watched TV.  The kitchen was awfully messy because I baked today. I was excused from clean up because...

• a) I tried a new supper dish and it was a keeper.
• b) I made two, count 'em two pies for dessert.
• c) We had a v-e-r-y long v-e-r-y tedious day of school or 
• d) I had an injection in my heel today and I'm supposed to stay off of my feet this evening.

If you guessed any of the above, you'd be correct!

It all started way back in July during Vacation Bible School at church.  I love VBS week.  I enjoy the weeks leading up to it as well because I get to spend lots of time on a project that, unlike many in my season of life, has a beginning,

a middle,

a definite end,
and it didn't have to be done again the next day!

After the backdrop is complete, VBS begins.  This year the base of operations was the Fellowship Hall.  It was a perfect place for the opening of VBS, the closing of VBS, and the music (and the craft area, and the snack station...).  For all of its tropical appeal, this collection of gussied up cardboard never left the Fellowship Hall.  Never. The same could be said of me, well, not really.  I went home to sleep and eat and enjoy my kiddos and my niece who joins us each year for the big event.  Its a tradition. It just wouldn't be VBS without her!

During the month of July, I spent an awful lot of time on that rock-solid tile on the floor.  That wouldn't have been a big deal except that for nearly 100% of that time, my shoe of choice was the flip-flop.  The flip-flop, one of the staples of summer, is surely a harmless shoe option. It's easy on, easy off, cool feet, cool colors, easy on the wallet, showy for the flashy polish on the toes.  Here at the Wright Place, we hold flip-flops in high esteem. Kate got very creative with hers this summer.

While singing with the VBS kids and perhaps bouncing up and down on my flip-flops just a bit in the "Rainforest" with the tile floor, I may have done some damage to my feet.  I chose to deal with the pain "like a man" and ...IGNORE it! This was a fine strategy until I began to realize that my peppy stride had become a grimace-filled shuffle.  A grimace-filled shuffle which would not be fun to walk next to if one were, say a ten-year-old girl at the mall, or a five-year-old girl at a mall, or an eleven-year old boy on the sidelines of a football field.  

My pace was perfect for pushing Molly in the stroller. In fact, the stroller was necessary as my walker to survive any shopping at all. 

It began to hurt each day like someone had taken a hammer and beat my heels with it and then said, "Keep up with those precious kids today now, go, go, go!" My morning trips to the coffee maker were getting longer and longer. I began planning meals according to how long I had to stand up to fix them. I let the laundry go because I had to go up and down the stairs to accomplish the task (OK really, we ALL know that I let the laundry go all the time, it just sounds so much better to have a real excuse!).  It was simply TIME to take care of the feet.

I'll take you to the doctor with me for the next post. 

Fear not, there are NO actual pictures, just my mental ones!

Sniffles

Our little one has the sniffles.  She's a bit pitiful with all of the stuffiness and coughing.  "Nothse," she says when her little button nose needs attention.  She's enjoying all of the attention for after requesting attention for her nose, she says, "Bed" and motions toward MY bed.  "Piyyows," is the next command which queues us to begin the propping.  "Gink!" is usually the next directive that causes a runner to deliver a sippy cup.  A seasoned runner also knows that "PASSY" will be the next request and grabs it on the way.  Finally, with finger pointed TV-ward she says, "MOUSE."  As in Mickey Mouse.  Now...all is right in her little stuffed up world.

Kate and I took her to a doctor a few days ago.  Our family doctor was away, so we had to see a "back up" doctor.  I never like this.  Our doctor is used to us, and we haven't been able to make him nervous for some years now. New doctors don't seem to know what to do with our craziness.  Usually all "non-patients" have joined the "patient" on the table and all of us are coloring with crayons on the white paper that covers the table by the time our doctor enters the room. 

The last time we visited our doctor there were four patients--two children and two adults!  Molly and Kate were kept busy by the kind receptionist while the nurse moved the rest of us on and off of the scales, took our temperatures, and ushered us into the exam room much like cattle being led into their chutes!   I hope never to have to do that to all those kind souls ever again! 

For Molly's most current visit to the substitute doctor, I need not have fretted.  Kate had it all under control.  "Mom, do you want the diaper bag?" she asked as we were climbing from the van.

"No.  Just give me a diaper, we'll not be in there long." 

"Mom," she said, handing over the diaper, "we'd better take some wipes in too." 

"Nah, just come on, we'll be fine."

"Mom," I heard again once we had negotiated the elevator and had located the correct office.  I was in the middle of signing papers as she continued, "Look at Molly.  She's bent over and her face is all red."  Her grin said, I told you to bring the wipes. 

After Kate had introduced us to a lady in the waiting room, we were summoned by a nurse.  As is the case with all pediatrician visits, this nurse had some questions.  When asked what her name was, she responded with her given name, her nickname, and the name she wished she had been given.  When I was asked Molly's name, Kate answered for me.  "How old is she?" asked the nurse.

"I'm going to be five very soon," said Kate, handing me some tissues out of her sequined purse as I changed Molly's diaper.

"And the baby?" asked the nurse, looking my direction.

"She's ooonnnneeeee," answered the soon to be five year old with a bit of huff.  She must have thought that the nurse should be able to recognize a one-year-old on spec.

When asked the reason for our visit, I opened my mouth to describe the symptoms.  I need not have bothered.  "She's got this awful green stuff running down her face, she's not sleeping well and she's very grouchy."  All that was left for me to do was nod and write the check. 

Honestly, I didn't know Kate had it in her.  Maybe it was all her years as a patient that were doing the talking?