pameladean | Entries tagged with ankle

The Onion Watch is over. Both Cassie and Saffron are fine.

I am very tired of this boot, and yet two weeks is really a very short time to be wearing one of these. It's better since I got the shoe balancer. But that can't be worn outside at this time of year. I ventured out yesterday sans shoe balancer, but with a lot of help from Eric. Fortunately, my winter boots have slightly thicker soles than my regular walking shoes, so the imbalance was less. But my hips, back, and knees set up a huge complaint all the same.

We saw "The Last Jedi" so we could stop avoiding spoilers all over; went grocery shopping; had a late dinner at Pizza Luce, splitting an order of roasted Brussels sprouts and a small spinach salad and then going our own way for the entrees; and went back to his house and conversed and cuddled the cat.

We enjoyed the movie a lot, though the sound balance was such that we missed some dialogue, including, almost certainly, some punch lines. It is thoroughly and unabashedly a "Star Wars" movie; not one of the prequels, but harking back in ways great and small to the first trilogy only with a lot more different kinds of people in it. Of course we had a lot of quibbles. I am gobsmacked, however, at the reactions of a certain group who hated the movie. What they are objecting to is so mild, so nearly anodyne, and yet they can't stand it. If anybody is moved to discuss any aspect of the movie in the comments, please clearly mark any spoilers. And I'm very short on patience with certain lines of argument.

Being outside was fine while the temperature was above freezing, but when things started to ice up I became a paranoid mass of apprehension.

On Wednesday morning, I will get up, and I will not have to put on the boot. The clinic says that if I have no residual swelling or pain, I'm good to go; otherwise they will refer me to physical therapy. I am hoping very hard for the former outcome. The swelling is almost gone now, but there is still some twinginess right around the ankle bone.

I'm still reading Anthony Price, and wanted to note down one place where history caught him up, through no fault of his own. In an earlier book, Our Man in Camelot, a bunch of younger agents in Price's imaginary intelligence department, Research and Development, are arguing with David Audley about, well, everything; but Frances Fitzgibbon, my single favorite character in the entire series, refers to "the rot at the top" of the Nixon Administration. Audley shuts her down by saying that it was the rot at the top that brought the boys home from Viet Nam.

This line never did sit well with me, but this time, I thought, "Wait, wait, wait, didn't Nixon act to delay the negotiations that would end the war so that his anti-war presidential campaign would not have the wind taken out of its sails, and so that he could get the credit?" Yes. Yes he did. The tapes were released in 2013. Lyndon Johnson knew what Nixon was doing, but he figured that Hubert Humphrey would win the election, so he didn't do anything. STOP WITH THAT NONSENSE YOU SELF-SATISFIED BLUNDERING POLITICIANS; IT NEVER WORKS OUT THE WAY YOU THINK.

I want to grab David Audley through the page of the book and give him this information. More than that, I want to give it to Frances.

Pamela

Edited to make an errant sentence have some sense in it.

Crossposts: https://pameladean.livejournal.com/184697.html

The cats are still fine. They have done all the cat things: scampering (both of them), tail-chasing (Saffron), getting underfoot (mostly Cassie), demanding to be fed at the wrong times (both of them).

I finally received the Evenup Shoe Balancer that I ordered, which is a kind of sandal that is more or less bungied onto the shoe of one's uninjured foot, when one is wearing a walking cast or boot on the other foot. It's not infinitely adjustable, and it isn't supposed to get wet, and one is sternly enjoined against rapid walking or walking on lumpy surfaces like grass, gravel, or, I presume, snow. But it's still a great relief that the two pieces of my current footgear are now of approximately the same height. I made an incautiously fast turn while carrying a pot of boiling water and pasta to the sink, however, and there was a distinct wobble. NO RAPID WALKING, and no sudden changes of direction. But the various bits of hip, back, and knee that were complaining about my uneven gait have subsided quite a lot.

I'm poking at Going North, trying to decide whether I want to write an introduction to the short-story collection, and trying not to be too impatient. I don't need to cook tomorrow, so I might try doing some laundry. The excitement!

I also continue rereading Anthony Price and playing tag with the bad fairies.

Pamela

Crossposts: https://pameladean.livejournal.com/184375.html

I didn't get a big enough supply of cast socks (still no actual group of characters in the sock *disappointed face*), but I think they can be hand washed. My foot approves of my having figured out that I was putting the front panel of the boot on upside down. No permanent damage seems to have been done; and actually, it may be my right knee, which was already a bit martyred in its attitude towards doing a different kind of work than usual, that is really grateful. All parts of me are pretty bored with this entire situation and I would really like to shovel some snow, but there isn't much to complain of in the larger scheme of things.

Saffron, after her profound sleeping-off-the-dissipation nap, has been entirely herself. So has Cassie; it's just that I am becoming more fully persuaded that Cass did not actually get any onion dip.

In other news, while I was waiting for the plumber to finish his miracle yesterday, I went through my mail, and found with some relief the first invoice for my Part B Medicare plan. I opened it and was instantly horrified. They wanted $536. Most people pay $134 a month for Part B, though you can get that waived or get help with it if it's a hardship, and apparently some people pay more. But this was MORE OH MY GOD MORE WHAT. Then I noticed the mathematical relationship between the expected and the actual charge, and read the fine print. They want to be paid quarterly. This isn't exactly convenient, but at least the amount is not utterly terrifying.

I've been rereading Anthony Price -- it's a thing that I do when I miss Mike Ford -- and trying to write a post about the experience. There are some bad fairies accompanying me on this adventure. At least, I think there are. Point of view in the Price books is really complex and layered and convoluted, like everything else about them, and tracking down who really thinks what and what Price thinks about it or wants you to think about it is surprisingly difficult. So there are some interior thoughts and some lines of dialogue that I recoil from utterly; but if they come from a character that Price is building up and undercutting at the same time, or if a different character takes issue with the opinion but not as vigorously as I'd like, but that character is probably being undercut too, it's a little difficult to see whether that is a bad fairy or just a weird set of shadows.

Pamela

Crossposts: https://pameladean.livejournal.com/184261.html

It's been an interesting few days. The weekend involved both my family birthday celebration and a date with Eric, one sort of in the interstices of the other. Both party and date were very pleasant indeed. During one of the date parts, I got email from David saying that water was coming up from the floor drain in the basement. I wrote back saying I'd call Roto-Rooter if it were me dealing with it, but he'd maybe liked Ron the Sewer Rat better when we had drain problems. He got a time window from Roto-Rooter of 5 to 9 pm on Sunday evening. It turned out that the water coming up from the drain was quite extensive and it wasn't safe to shower, run dishwashers, flush toilets more than very occasionally, or even wash one's hands vigorously. These restrictions have a very depressing effect on one's ability to do much of anything

The hours crept by and it was 9:30 and there were no plumbers. David called them and they admitted to running late and offered us a Monday window of 10 am to 2 pm. This would fall to me, since David had to work Monday. I thought of calling another emergency plumber that had once come through for us when Roto-Rooter got overwhelmed. However, I got an automated message from them saying that they were experiencing an unusually high volume of calls. While I was considering whether I would stay on hold, I brought up the MNDOT site and looked at the traffic map. It had been snowing pretty hard all afternoon and evening -- Eric and I had agreed that we would not try to go to the St. Paul Trader Joe's or our usual former Rainbow/now Cub in Uptown, and he brought me home early. On the MNDOT map the highways around the Twin Cities were solid orange and spattered liberally with purple squares enclosing exclamation points, When you hovered the mouse over them they said variously, "Crash," "Vehicle spun out" and "Critical Disruption on Highway 52." Okay, no. We had to resign ourselves to a night without drains.

I will not dwell on the situation further. It only lasted about 24 hours, but when nobody can shower, flush anything without consultation about when anybody else has last done so, run the dishwasher as a prelude to cooking, or do any laundry, things devolve rapidly into chaos. I set my alarm for 9:15, which is extremely early for me. Saffron woke me around 8:15 wanting to be fed, so I shut her out of the room, but about half an hour later I got up and used the bathroom and optimistically flushed the upstairs toilet, which is cranky and horrible but only has a tank capacity of 1.6 gallons, and fed the cats. Then I cleaned up with baby wipes and got dressed and put my shoe on my left foot and the Robot Boot of Doom on the right foot. I discovered about twelve hours later that I'd put the front panel on upside down, which meant I spent the whole day adjusting and readjusting the boot because it felt wrong and nothing would stay in place and my heel kept sliding around.

The phone rang twice once the window for plumbers began. The first call hung up on me, so I put it into a search engine and got a lot of very indignant comments about spam callers and being called 20 times a day by a number that never left a message. Okay, probably not the plumber. The second call also hung up on me, but when searched for turned out to be the Minneapolis Snow Emergency Phone Alert number. When I did hear from Roto-Rooter, they called my cellphone. The plumber arrived and sympathized about the walking boot, and we minced down into the basement to find a pool of water covering the floor drain and trying to take over the foot of the stairs. The plumber walked around muttering. "Shit," he said. He poked around, cleared junk from around the plumbing stack in what we'd like to be a basement bathroom one day, and said he could probably get at the problem through that stack. "Only," he said, "I have to bring a really big machine into the house and I'm not sure how to do it." He mimed its size and height. We discussed bringing it around the side of the house, but the snow there hasn't been shovelled. Raphael and I do most of the shovelling unless there's enough snow to break out the snow blower, when David does it; but Raphael is getting over a virus. Lydy has exercise-induced asthma. David had shovelled the last lot of snow in front but has long work hours. And I have a broken ankle.

The plumber finally decided to bring his machine in through the front door and see how it went. I moved a bunch of lightweight objects out of the path he'd have to take, and this sufficed. He bumped his battered Victorian-looking wheeled object down the basement steps. I retired to the living room to put my foot up. There was a protracted banging session. That stack is really old. I wondered if the access cap was stuck. Eventually there was a ringing thump as of a heavy metal object hitting a concrete floor, and then the machine started up. Then it stopped. The plumber came upstairs. "Ma'am? Where's your electrical panel?" I got up and came to show him. "I blew a fuse," he said. I managed to describe the location of the room with the panel in it, and stood at the the top of the stairs while he went in and dealt with the fuse and then walked around turning lights off and talking to himself. I decided he had things in hand and went to put my foot up again. A series of roars, rumbles, thumps, and sounds as if someone were delivering a series of oversized packages of rocks at the front door went on for some time. I'd been nursing the fear that something really dramatic was wrong that wouldn't yield to the usual remedies, and thinking that I knew plenty of people who would let me take a shower, or let all of us take showers, but that clumping around in the snow with the boot was not at all a good idea. When Eric and I had come into the house on Sunday he'd suggested that I brush the snow off my boot. I ended up taking the whole thing off and to some degree apart. It dried fast, but it's really not for wet conditions at all. Anyway, the longer the noises went on the more reassured I felt.

After about an hour, the plumber, looking somewhat the worse for wear, came back upstairs with his machine. It was, he said, tree roots. Lots of tree roots. But he had gotten through and the drain worked now. He also said he needed to get a new access cap out of the truck because he'd had to break the old one. As he maneuvered the wheeled monster that had fixed the drain into the front hall he said, "Oh, the snow's still there." I apologized for its not being shovelled and he said, "No, I didn't mean that. I meant all the snow. It's not spring yet." I said it did seem to be time for spring at this point. When everything was squared away and I'd parted with a large amount of money and we'd arranged for a person with a drain camera to come and check the line and make sure it was as clear as it should be, I locked up and with enormous satisfaction flushed the downstairs toilet, washed my hands extravagantly, and took my book and pillbox back upstairs. Whatever else I may have messed up, I did take my medication at the right time even though I got up three hours early/

Being able to put water down the drain was giddy-making. When I got over that, I realized I was hungry, so I got out some of the leftovers from the birthday dinner -- baby carrots, celery sticks, and vegan sour cream and onion dip. I would have some, put it away, and then realize that I was still hungry, and fetch it back out of the fridge to have some more. Finally I just left the remaining carrots and the container of dip, with the lid firmly in place, on a high part of my desk that cats have never gotten anything down from. Then I took a shower, which was luxurious, and got dressed again, and put my boot back on -- still with the front panel upside down -- and headed back to my office. Cassie was meatloafed in the middle of the sitting room floor. There was no sign of Saffron, but she often spends the afternoon either bothering Raphael or sleeping peacefully in Raphael's extra chair. However, as I sat down and put my foot up, wriggling my errant heel back into place, I heard very odd noises from the space between my desk and the wall. I thought Saffron might be stuck. I craned sideways and looked. She was not stuck. She was standing in the licked-clean dip container, assiduously licking the dip from the underside of the lid.

The carrots were right where I'd left them, untouched.

I took the lid and container away from her and put them with the other dirty dishes. I told Raphael what had happened, mostly thinking there might be digestive issues, but when I saw Raphael's face I thought, Oh, right, onions. Bad for cats. After a bit of discussion, Raphael looked up the effects of onions on cats. There were probably at most three tablespoons of dip left, and it was possible that Cass had gotten some of it, but when we did the numbers as best we could, given that the dip was not composed only of onions, it still sounded less than ideal.

This still left us at a loss, so we decided I should call the emergency vet and see what they thought. The person I talked to said that freeze-dried onions were usually not as bad as fresh, but that they didn't really have the information on hand, and she would give me the number for the ASPCA Veterinary Toxicology line. I called this number and eventually got a very nice woman who asked a bunch of questions about the cats and their ages and whether any OTHER cats might have been involved -- Ninja would have if he could, but he was downstairs -- and then put me on hold while she consulted a veterinarian. We were worried about getting the car out and getting to the emergency vet on the snowy streets, and I was worried about clumping around in lumpy uncertain snow in my boot. You can put a plastic bag on the boot, but that doesn't address any balance issues and in addition removes traction on slippery surfaces.

The conclusion of the veterinary toxicologist, when delivered, was a relief. They didn't expect any difficulties with such young and healthy cats. We should watch for lethargy, weakness, and pale gums over the next five days. The main bad effect of onions on cats is anemia, which can be treated. I also got a long list of protocols to follow in case the vegan sour cream caused digestive problems, and a list of under what circumstances I should call them back, and a case number. The service costs $65.00, but this includes all the callbacks.

Cassie acted just as usual for the rest of the evening. Saffron had a very very deep nap, which led us to think that she had probably gotten most of the dip and needed to sleep it off. She woke up for her supper and they both ate with their usual appetite.

After I fed the cats I sat down to adjust my boot again, and finally realized that I'd been putting the front panel in upside down. I am 99% sure that I only did that yesterday and today. It still immobilized most of my foot quite well, so I trust it will be all right. There's nothing to be done about it, anyway; but this confirms my suspicion that my executive function is all being used up in navigating with the boot, and that resources generally available to make my brain work right are being diverted to the ankle.

I would say that no more exciting things are allowed to happen, but there isn't much point in that.

Pamela

Crossposts: https://pameladean.livejournal.com/183977.html

On Monday I called the nurse-advice line associated with my health insurance and described the history of my injured ankle. The nurse said I should be seen by a medical professional who could decide if I needed an X-ray. I hadn't gotten around to the call very early in the day and then they had to call me back, so my clinic was closed by then. I slept poorly and finally got up at 8:30, fed the cats early, and called my clinic. They have same-day appointments and offered me either 10:40 or 2:30. I took the second, naturally,

Pat who is not on DW and I have a writing date on Tuesdays, unless we don't. We'd missed a couple of days during the holiday chaos, but had agreed to meet today. When apprised of the appointment, she asked where my clinic was and then said she could drive me there after we had lunch. She picked me up at 12:30 and we went off to our usual haunt, the Uptown branch of Pizza Luce. This establishment presented an alarming face to the world. The parking lot was full of trucks and vans and a kind of tank truck. We parked on the street and approached a couple of Pizza Luce employees who were having a smoke in the back, and they told us that they were closed because a pipe had burst, but they'd be open again tomorrow. We wished one another joy of the lovely weather, and Pat and I got back into the car and tried to salvage our plans. Pat started heading for Patisserie 46, a wonderful place but sometimes a bit short of food for me. I suggested that Blackbird was closer to the clinic. She dropped me off in front and then had to range around finding parking, but eventually we were seated in the tiny booth in the very back. We'd given up on the idea of a writing date because our time was too short by then, but we had a very nice lunch. They are still serving breakfast at 12:50, so I got a tofu scramble with gigantic pieces of broccoli and a lot of spinach and hash-browns. The server also asked me if I'd like a side of avocado, and of course I would, but it turned out to be an entire avocado half. After a highly physiological conversation about aging, exercise, and bone repair, we repaired to the clinic. I thanked Pat fervently and went in.

The doctor who saw me was very pleasant and somewhat stunningly cute. He poked at my ankle and said that he would call it a bad sprain, with no need for an X-ray, but that if I wanted one for absolute assurance, he'd send me downstairs. At this point I felt I was all in, so I said I'd like the X-ray. He said for the sprain he'd recommend an Ace bandage followed by physical therapy. When I went back upstairs a couple of medical assistants showed me how to put on an Ace bandage, and I put my sock and shoe back over it and left. This was a mistake. They hadn't told me what would happen next, but they also hadn't given me the usual papers you get before leaving.

About five minutes after I got home one of them called to say that I actually had a small fracture on the outside part of my foot, and the doctor thought I needed a walking boot. Could I come back for it? It was 4:04; the clinic closes at 5:00. I rushed about cursing loudly and getting ready to go out and get back on a bus; but Raphael, who was also rushing about finishing up some work, told me that it would be possible to give me a ride. We got there at 4:37. I had a short wait during which a lot of people left, but then the other medical assistant called me in and showed me how to put on and adjust the boot. She said I should wear it during the day for two weeks, but not sleep in it.

It looks like a giant robot foot. It's gray and square and just enormous. I was told I shouldn't wear a sock with it because wrinkles could cause problems. However, the instructions say primly, "Comfort may be increased by wearing a cotton or cast sock. (NOT INCLUDED.)" Gosh, thanks so much, manufacturer of giant robot boots. That's so helpful. I have ordered a cast sock online. I regret to say that it does not appear to contain the cast of Hamlet, or Slings and Arrows, or Noises Off, or Arcadia. False advertising, I say. It will be here Friday.

I complained bitterly about the boot, which felt awful, all the way home. I adjusted it a couple of times and it wasn't quite so dire, but the thought of clumping around in it for two weeks was and is depressing. I told Raphael that while the stated purpose was to immobilize the injury, the obvious real purpose was to be too cumbersome for me to walk around in.

Cassie does not like the boot. She got down on her belly when she saw it and slunk backwards as I walked towards her. Saffron failed to note it at first, until she tried to walk past me, when she started and skittered by in a big hurry. She later sniffed it thoroughly and decided that it wasn't dangerous. Cassie is now sanguine about it if it's just sitting or standing about, but if I move towards her she starts going in figure eights. She really wants to be a pace cat and walk very slowly in front of me, but she has to keep checking on the boot.

I am sincerely grateful to everybody in the comments who told me to see a doctor and get an X-ray. However, I hate this damn boot. I've taken it off twice, lying about with my foot up for half an hour until the horror faded, and then putting it back on. This time the adjustment is much better. But it's still enormous and, in my opinion, likely to trip me if I try to move much. My mother asked me if I remembered the time my middle brother had to wear a plaster cast for eight weeks at the height of summer -- he got his leg caught in the wheel of his tricycle when he was three, and had to learn to walk a second time when the cast finally came off. It stank to heaven, much like Claudius's deeds. I am glad I don't have one of those. And I'm glad it's not summer, or any part of hiking season. But this boot. Ugh.

Pamela