I am One of the Forgotten

I feel that I am one of the Forgotten, a lonely lost boy.

But it's Okay.  I find it is a mutual dislike.

I never found my place in the world.  I never found the group I belong too and now as sick as I am I don't have the energy that is needed to interact with others.  I don't care.  I really don't care.  And I have no idea how to fix my attitude.  I realize that the deep loneliness I feel is my fault, but I tried, I really, really did.

I grew up fat and ugly.  I find it doesn't matter much any more, but when we were young it was very important how you looked.  I grew up seeing the look of disgust on a persons face when I was told to sit next to someone by the teacher.  I didn't blame that person for their reaction, I looked in the mirror, I understood what that person was being subjected too.  I felt bad for them.

I am very conscious of negative body language.  I shrink from it.  I avoid that person because I feel that I am the cause of their discomfort and I feel it come at me in waves and I don't like it.  I have avoided people as much as I could in social situations.  I did not learn the positive signs from others.  I can not tell if a person likes me.  I am sure there were many missed opportunities.

Band was the first group I fell into.  The Jr. High band teacher found me because my brother had been in band and asked me to join.  I knew how to read music from piano lessons and I found myself in beginning band and concert band playing the clarinet. Then I heard the High School needed help with players for graduation and I got on the High School teacher radar.  In eight grade I found myself getting up at 6 o'clock to practice on the field for Marching band, then driving back to the Jr. High for school and concert band then driving back to the High School for another practice til 6 o'clock at night.  I got a great education in music, but I realized that I was not a musician.  I could not relate to anyone in band.  I was a very big girl at this time and I seemed older then I really was, plus with the influx of hormones the hair on my face started.   I did not know how to deal with any of the personal things that were happen to me.  I tried ripping the hair out with wax, but it was so tough it stayed.  I used Nair to chemically remove the hair, but that irritated my skin.  I had hair on my face and I was a big girl and every day I walked into band the trumpet players would say under their breaths. "Sasquatch!"  I wish so much that it didn't bother me.  I wish so much that the name just rolled off my back like water on a  duck's back, but it didn't.  I knew they were going to say it to me everyday, when ever the group saw me and yet it was still a surprise. My face blushing and a bright feeling exploding in my body every time "Sasquatch" was whispered to me in the middle of practice.  I felt terrible and alone.  I was different and it was easy to pick on me.  I shrank into myself.  I rather be alone than stand up to the abuse.  I didn't want to be reminded of how I looked to other people.  I imagined running away to a freak show, they always could use a bearded lady.  I just couldn't deal with that and deal with the medical problems that were affecting my every day life, so the people got pushed to the side.  Everyone, mean and kind, it didn't matter.  I was a member of band, but I was not apart of the group. 

I left band and turned to theatre.  Now I had real hope for acting.  I found that there are multiple levels in Drama.  There are the cocky, beautiful leading roles, something that I learned pretty quickly hat I was not going to get, but then there is everybody else.  More than beautiful people are needed to put a play together.  I could be an actor. 

The drama group was struggling when I found it and nobody was trying out for the plays.  That is why I got a speaking role, a man's part because they just didn't have the people.  I threw myself into every part of making a production.  I learned how to set up the lights and the filters.  I learned how to operated the light board.  I brought my father in, who works for the movie and TV industry painting sets, with his help we came up with how to do complicated sets.  I picked out the costumes we rented.  And put a lot of work into upping the level of the productions we produced.   In my senior year I had built up the program so much that we were able to do our first musical in 10 years.  We had an over abundance of people trying out for parts.  I had the choir involved and the band involved.  It was quite a triumph from when I first started the program and there was only one boy in the class.  I loved it.  I loved being on stage.  I loved getting to know the people.  I found in theatre that everyone involved was screwed up in some way.  I kind of fit in that world, but it is fleeting.  The love and comradery only lasts as long as the play.  It kills me every time.  People I thought were my friend, some one I could see outside of the play were gone.  I also didn't fit in that world because I was LDS (Mormon).  I did not fill the hole in my soul with alcohol, drugs and sex, like the individuals in the production.

My Senior year I went to the Drama awards ceremony and was so heart broken when I received nothing.  Do you get that?  NOTHING.  I had given so much to the program and I was forgotten once again.  I did not go to award ceremonies very often because I was usually forgotten.  I went to the teacher and asked what had happened.  Why was I dissed like that?  She apologized and had me write down everything I had done for the program.  The list filled 2 pages front and back.  It turned out that I had lettered 4 times over in Drama in only two years.  But it didn't matter because nobody knew.  I got the medals in the mail.  All my work forgotten again.  It happens all the time.  It is good that I do things because I like it and not for the recognition, but since people don't seemed to remember me it has hurt my career.  I have found that it really is who you know that gets you a job in this world. 

I thought I would find my place at church, but even there I found myself forgotten.  People knew who I was, but not much interaction with others on the level I wanted.  I have had to learn that people are at different levels of understanding.  I had a profound, perception changing set of events happen to me on my mission and after.  Nobody showed me how to have a relationship with Jesus Christ I figured it out on my own using the teaching of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  I was lucky to have an amazing soundboard in my friend Shannon.  Oh, I thank Heavenly Father for letting her come into my life.

I came home from my mission dying under the weight of what I had learned and seen and done.  I wanted so badly to tell others what I had experienced, but it sounded crazy.  I knew that Shannon had been on a mission before me and had been very honest about her experiences, some were not that great.  I opened up to her and to have someone actually follow me down the rabbit hole to the deeper levels where I am comfortable was beyond amazing.  I did not know how to speak appropriately in social situations.  She was brave enough to tell me that what I had said as an observation, not meaning any malice actually hurt her feelings.  I knew that I had a problem with offending others and during this time Shannon helped me understand what I was doing.  I found it took so much work and was boring to stay in the shallow zone when talking to someone.  But I learned how important that is if you want to be apart of a group.  I was more successful navigating the workplace which happened to be in the Theatre

She let me apart of her life.  I was there when she became pregnant with her second child.  She told me the truth of what it was like to carry a child and give birth.  I was there with the little baby and saw what it took to take care of that little thing.  It is through her that I learn of the sacrifice that women give to their children.  I admire any woman who is able to stay home.  I saw through her eyes how much work it was to have anything to do with a person outside of your little family.  I saw that people were not forgetting me on purpose.  They were just busy with their own live, which made the situation worse.  I am single without children and right now I don't fit in with my peers once again.

Shannon let me come over after spending the week in college earning my Fashion Design degree.   I found myself apart of the homosexual group and I was trying to figure out why I kind of fit with them.  Shannon was there to hear my question and ponderings.  She was there to hear me, which I am so gratefully for.  I felt forgotten by everybody else.  My peers were busy with their babies.  I am outside the box.  I am a square peg that is being pushed into a round hole.   A person can only stand me for so long and unfortunately that is true vice versa. 

I don't mind being forgotten.  I figured out a while ago that I like to swim at the very bottom of the pool.  I like to be deep and think of the greater meanings of life.  I like to question and I like to understand.  Most of the people I have meet like to live in the shallow end.  They like the basics in life, find success in having a big house and a new car.  I am bored by those people.

And then the people that have trauma, who are fighting against the social norm by body modification or are doing destructive behaviors like drugs or sleeping around.  They tell me they are happy and I want to see if they really are, but I find that they are lying to themselves.  I really do feel for them and want to help, but it never seems to work out that way.  Instead of them wanting to be better they want me to start the drugs.  When that happens I have to distance myself.

With this move to Virginia I really am forgotten.  I didn't want to move here.  When I visited my parents I knew that moving would be the death of me. I put it off as long as I could, but my Kidney Doctor at the time was honest and told me I wouldn't get better.  And I was doing fantastic compared to now.  I remember in Simi a woman asked if I was excited to move back with my parents and I flat out replied no.  I am a city girl.  I am used to large amounts of people.  I am used to civilization.  We are lucky to have a Wal-Mart in town, other people have to drive for miles to get grocery's.  I miss Baja Fresh and Pick up Stick.  I miss getting a Red's salad delivered.  Nothing is delivered here.  It is awful to be starving and having to depend on your parents to get food..  I never ate McDonald's in California, but here it is the best quality fast food.,  I am not used to this.  I am used to having the best meat and produce from Costco up the block.  To find anything here you have to drive an hour.  An hour!  I physically can't do that, so I feel trapped.  I feel like I am in a cage. 

It was hard enough being different when I had a bunch of people to pick through.  I am too sick to leave the house and very few people know that I exist.  I feel like all the skills I learned with Shannon are being lost.  Why would I keep them when some days I don't talk to anyone.  Nothing leaves my throat.  I am to blame for being forgotten.  Not only can I not physically go to anyone's house.  I can not talk on the phone.  I refuse to answer it.  It is bad.  I don't know if it has become a phobia.  I just have nothing to talk about.  Some days I am lucky if the pain will let me get out of bed. I don't want to talk about my sickness.  I don't want to talk about the Doctor visits, but that is all that happens to me.  I am not defined by my pain, but that is all I have at times.

I want this phase of my life over.  I don't know what will happen next.  What is interesting for me is that of course it wasn't going to change.  I laugh at myself now thinking that I would find a friend to stay with me.  I learned in childhood how to entertain myself.  I know how to be alone.  I don't have any interest in being apart of a group.  I see myself living in a nursing home because I can't take care of myself.  I guess when I am forgotten sitting in my room I will be used to it.

My Dream- The Devil's in the Details

I am in a funk.  I don't want to sew.  I don't want to create. I just feel like I can only watch TV for hours on end.  Ever since my foot went bad.  It was so much energy to do what was necessary after a chuck was taken out of my foot leaving a hole.  Why are the sick asked to get in a car and travel to the Doctor?  I was getting an antibiotic every other day to stop the infection and I knew for me the journey to the hospital would be over (at least I hoped), but I was amazed at those getting chemo in the chairs next to me.  I know from family members that they were getting poison and it made them feel awful.  I kept saying to myself that it could always be worse.  I could have lost my foot and I was determine to do what was necessary to kept it, but I was breaking under the list of demands.

I have been able to climb out of my funks in the past, but I have no desire to change how I feel.  I used to figured there was hope to cling to.  I would meet someone that I could trust.  I would find a job that I loved or even felt comfortable in.  I had hope in these things, but there is no hope anymore, only harsh, cold reality.  I haven't wanted to write on this form either because  if I try to write a new post off of the top of my head it will be negative.  I just don't need that in print.

As for my foot it is still healing.  I can't see it. but the chunk that was missing has filled in.  I still have an open wound, but it only needs a Band-Aid to cover it.  This all started the week before Thanksgiving, now we are going into May and I see no end in sight.

So I thought I would write another dream.  I actually have been going through a dream journal that I started in 1997.  I wish I was a better writer, but the dreams are filled with such feeling and detail.  It amazes me because I haven't ever studied Martial Arts and yet I am an expert.  No person can fly, but in my dreams I could.  I endured the fear of falling off a building and the vertigo that goes with it.  I would startle awake grabbing the bed to stop the falling in my head.  I haven't ever had a child and yet I had a dream that I was pregnant and felt the baby move.  How?  Where is that coming from?  And soon after I had a tiny baby girl in a baby carrier, knowing that I had named her blueberry.  So very strange.  I had a hard time choosing a dream, so I decided to write this one because it happened while I was living here in Virginia.  I haven't written it down and it has been more than a year, but I still remember the details.  I also decide on this dream because it was so much like an episode of the "Twilight Zone", complete with an ending, so many of my dreams are scenes in the middle of the story.  They become complicated to write.  Know that I wrote this one so it would be a nice story.  This was a dream and not so nicely structured.

The Devil's in the Details

I was flying with my family on a much anticipated vacation.  We were able to get a deal on the plane tickets, so everyone in the family was there including wives and children of my brothers.  We were able to get such a good price on the plane tickets because it was a trial of a new set of planes from a new airline.  We got the discount if we filled out a survey on how the trip compared to others. 

The plane was amazing.  Instead of the small seats and no leg room the cabin had a section of desks that you could get up and use with every kind of electrical device at one's fingertips.  I remember clearly my nephew playing the Nintendo DS and my niece enjoying her favorite cartoons.  I was very impressed with the service and as I laid back in a comfy chair I thought all was right with the world and how lucky we were to find this deal.

Suddenly all the electrical devices shut off at the same time.  Everyone moaned and my nephew was very upset starting to cry.  The flight attendants came in with pens and clipboards.  One of them stood in front of the group and explained that in order to continue the electrical services for the phones, computers and other devices they were going to need every person to sign a contract, even the children.  The airline needed to be the provider in the sky.  I heard a bunch of mumbling as people complained under there breath, but no one protested.

I passed the clipboard on to the others, but did not sign myself.  I knew I could handle the hours long trip with the full backpack under my seat.  I find airlines are lacking in food, water and entertainment, so I brought my own.  (Before the ban on liquids I brought huge bottles of water on board, after the ban I had to buy multiple bottles in the airport.  I figured it was a huge scam since the water was three times the price, but I digress.)  I wasn't interested in anything the expensive airline put out.  I figure if I signed the contract I would find myself with a huge bill later.

So everyone signs, even my family members.  I relax into my seat again when a very pretty flight attendant walks over to talk to me.
"Excuse me, Miss"  I look in her eyes to acknowledge I hear her. "You didn't sign the contract."
"No, I don't plan on using any of the technology from the airline."
"Are you sure?  There are movies and music.  How about some exciting video games?  They help to make the time fly by.  You can't do any of those thing if you don't sign the contract."
"No, I'm not interested.  I don't need to sign the contract."  I was getting annoyed.  I had already said no multiple times.
"Please, my boss will be angry with me."  She had a funny look in her eyes so I said back with a sigh.
"Get the contract."
I planned on reading it to see what I was agreeing to.  She handed it to me and it was that horrible contract jargon.  I slogged through it finding nothing wrong until the bottom.  The print was so small I couldn't read what it said.  The flight attendant came back to see if I had signed it yet, but I had a question for her.
"I need a copy of this section made bigger, so I can read it."
Then to my surprise she blanched to a sickly white.
"I...I can't do that."
"Then I'm not signing." She looked on the verge of despair.  "Okay, I'll get you what you want."  This time I watched as she went to the front of the plane and drew that curtain that I always see blocking out first class.

I got up to follow her.  Why did she want me to sign the contract so much?   I peek through the curtain and was caught off guard to see rows and rows of filing cabinets instead of the usual storage for drinks and food.  All of the flight attendants were searching through the filing cabinets.  I assumed they were looking for another copy of the contract.
"Tell her we can't find another copy", said another flight attendant.   "She needs to sign.  She is the only one that hasn't"
"Really," I thought to myself.  "The only person on this whole plane that hasn't signed that piece of paper.  That is quite amazing."
I backed off down the aisle since I knew she was coming back, when I was boxed in from he other side by another flight attendant.  I felt a ridiculous twinge of fear.
"Listen, just sign."  The new flight attendant commented with a bit of an order.
"I will when you show me the whole contract."  She step into me and grabbed my wrist.  The pain shot through my arm and I fell to my knees.  I almost missed her threat the pain was taking all my attention.  This wasn't happening, not over a phone contract, surely not over a phone contract.  The other passengers seemed frozen.  They were not helping me.  My own family wasn't helping me.  The flight attendant let go and I stood rubbing my arm.  She had backed away, but as I looked around all the flight attendants were standing in the aisles looking at me.  I heard a male voice behind me and turn around.  He was dressed in a pilot's uniform.  "Finally", I thought, "Someone to bring some order to this mad house."

He spoke, "She wants to know.  She wants to know the truth."  He handed me the full contract and I read the part that was tiny with a growing horror.
"No." I whispered at first. "No. No, not for some cell phone service.  You can't do this!", I scream. 
"I can."  He said with a snarl. "I can and I did."
"I won't sign!"  I yell in defiance.  If I don't sign then he can't take the plane. He can't take my family.

If I don't sign he can't take the plane to hell.  It is all or nothing.

"We have our ways to get what we want.  We always get what we want."   And he pointed at the flight attendants who morphed into minions of hell, red with wings and cloven hooves.  I feel an overwhelming revulsion.  Then the man behind me begins to laugh.  It chills me to the marrow of my bones and I turn to see the devil himself standing before me.

"They sold their souls all to be without technology for a couple of hours." I stammer to myself as I wonder how long I will last.

Boys: I don't understand




The beginning of my interaction with males on a daily basis in a good way.  Before this time it was a world of verbal abuse. 

I am feeling better, so I thought I would turn back to the book I have been writing off and on for a couple of years.  I think I got it to a point where I can send it to publishers.  The thing is I was having trouble figuring out what category it belonged in.  I really thought when I wrote it that it could be for the adult crowd.  I asked some other people and they all compared it to the same Young Adult books.  I decided to reread it and could barely get past the first chapters because I was so shocked at how it is the whining of a teenage novel.  I realized once again that I know nothing about the realities of courtship.  I don't like the game you have to play, but it seems to work.  I still have the views of a teenager, getting my information from books like "Twilight", which I have realized is not the best source.  That is the problem I have now.  Those over-acted movies.  Those whining teenage books are lost to me.  I can't read or watch them anymore and I thought I was grown-up, when in fact I was just giving up.

I have had a very different interaction with the male sex then I think most girls have.  I never felt sexy.  I wasn't the one you would notice in a crowded room and I felt it very strongly, of course people were actively telling me how ugly I was every day, so what they said stuck.  I kind of  embraced being ugly, in as much as a young adult can, I worked really hard to develop other qualities that someone would like.  I tried to be accomplished in a variety of subjects so I could talk to anyone.  I tried to develop my talents even though I didn't feel much support in that area.  The point is that I figured out that no man would approach me because he wanted to have sex with me.  I have no sex appeal, but I seem to have something else that I am a safe girl to talk too.  It seems to happen privately behind closed doors in a one-on-one situation.  I am usually able to get the guy talking.  You know it is amazing what peer pressure and group dynamics do to a person.  I hate what sheep people can be.  I guard against that because of what I saw.  Males who would rather be caught dead then caught talking to me would opened up in a private environment.  Well, as long as I was like a priest and kept their confessions silent, which I did.  Who did I have to tell? 

My first real hush-hush one-on-one happened with the neighbor boy.  We went to the same schools.  We were the same age, but really we did not hang out with the same crowd.  Last week I talked about the  constant verbal abuse and how it kept me indoors from the end of school.  Well, I began riding my bike at night.  It was a large beach crusier, black with gold rims.  We lived on a cull-de-sax, so I would ride around it in a circle.  Up one sidewalk follow the curve down the other sidewalk.  One night I heard someone yell and since it was so late I figured it was for me.  To my surprise it was the neighbor boy, Josh(all names has been changed)  He wanted a ride on the handlebars of my bike.  For me it was quite a joyful ride and memory that I keep close because it happened when I was the loneliest.  He would see me out in the night through his window and come and join me.  We hung out with the kids on the block and I interacted with Josh for years.  I knew that school and in public were not the place to say, "Hi".  I didn't care about that with Josh, it was a very dog eat dog world and he gave me the most wonderful conversations.  It was when he got his car, a red Ford Mustang.  He was worried about girls and family and everything under the stars.  We spent hours in that car talking.  I was dumbfounded by what my father said when he caught me sneaking into the house one night.  It was really late and I knew I needed to get home, but Josh and I just couldn't stop talking.  My Dad asked if there was going to be a problem, very seriously and I almost burst out laughing.  Here my Dad was concern about the horrible things boys do to girls (from their point of view) and I knew that Josh had no intention of doing any such thing.  I guess he helped groomed me to be a confidant.  The wise friend that knows everything. The problem was that I didn't have any friends, not the type that I would confide in.  I think I was pretty good to talk to considering I had none of the "normal" events of childhood. (I admit.  My knowledge of normal is from TV, movies and books.  I am sure no one had those experiences.)  It was a terrible existence and if my parents had let me homeschool, I would have in a heartbeat.  The thing is because I went to school I found my love of Theatre.  Another place I have been heartbroken by boys more than once

Being apart of the drama department gave me acceptance, even if it was fake most of the time.  I wasn't on top of the totum pole with the main actors.  I was usually on the bottom as a townsperson.  I know.  How many parts are written for a young fat girl.  No one wants to see that.  I didn't mind being on the bottom rung, but we all have bigger dreams.  I would get as close as I could to the group of people that would accept me at first glance, but because of the rehearsals and so much waiting, you tend to get to know everyone and they were from all walks of life..  I was apart of a group that had a purpose.  All of these people were working to make a beautiful product and I wanted that to, so we got close.

That is the thing about me, if there is a purpose, a goal to reach then I will be an extrovert.  I will get to know the people involved.  Boss them around if it is my job.  We will create the Masterpiece.  I think, Wow, I made friends.  These people like me.  But in the end everyone leaves.  Is that just the course of life?  Is everyone alone and floating in a strange universe juice?  I mean what I say.  I become attached to people, but they disappear.  Doesn't anyone else care enough to not let it happen?  I would try with people.  Call them on the phone, but they always started to avoid me and I won't be a burden.  I take a hint and after I call so many times and don't get a return call then I know the almost friendship is over.

It was during the after party of my college play that I was introduced to the new "adult" way of having a party.  Outside were the potheads sucking down the smoke.  We were talking before they started and then out came the pot.  Of course, they wanted me to join in, but I declined and moved into the living room where a bright blue drink was going around.  It must have been powerful because everyone drinking it was three sheets to the wind, I mean falling on the floor drunk.  I wasn't there for the vomiting.  I moved to the front room to get some air.  A couple of people were in there, apparently they had also had the blue drink and I saw that Kurt had needed to lie down.  The other was a girl I did not have any emotions for one way or the other.  I was/am so naïve.  I didn't know about beer-goggles when I went to this party.  I had talked and worked with these people for months.  I did not know that alcohol makes me really attractive.  I mean how confusing.  Kurt was beautiful in a model kind of way.  He had the kind of face you see in fashion magazines.  I talked with him, but since he was very good-looking it was normal for another girl to squeeze me out.  I didn't fight.  So at this party I guess he was feeling sick and this other girl was taking care of him when I came in.  I swear I didn't have any ulterior motive.  I was way too dumb for that.  I just knew a trick for headaches because I got them all the time.  I asked if he wanted me to try it on him.  It is a massage technique which means A) Our bodies were close and B) I was touching him.  Something happens when you invade someone's personal space, at least it does to me, that is one of the reasons for my standoffishness. He told me I was beautiful.  Luckily, I didn't believe it because of his drunkenness, I was cynical enough by that time.  He gave me a sloppy attempt at a kiss.  What do I do?  He is drunk.  We barely know each other and here he is trying to kiss me and telling me how beautiful I am.  It was so out of place.  I laid him back on the couch and went home.  Can you imagine the flack and utter horror he would have felt having a fatty on his list?  The thing is when men are drunk, someone I met very little, they ask me to sleep with them.  And here I am in everyday life unnoticed by the opposite sex.

This is just two examples of my confusing and frustrating interaction with men.  I have a lot more stories.  The reason all of this came up is because I have always had a male to have deep conversations with.  He was close to my age.  He was apart of my church.(except for the neighbor boy) And for reasons I don't understand he let me into his life enough that we could have deep conversations that fed a part of my inner spirit.  I don't have the younger male voice in my life anymore and I am starving for it.

I think like an extinct bird the guys that fill my list are gone.  They all are married.  I watched as all the young men I knew chose these Barbie dolls to marry.  Girls that did not seem to know anything about hardship.  Girls who hung on the man's shoulder afraid to mingle at a reunion.  I couldn't stand it.  The prettiest girls with no life experience were being picked while strong capable woman were being left behind.  I became an old maid in my church by 27, the only men available had been divorced.  I tried to be pretty at the end of those years.  I dressed in beautiful clothes that fit my body and hide my flaws.  I got contacts.  Had my hair professionally done.  I really was beautiful, but I was still fat and I watched as the last of the women got married.  There are still some single women I know even in my middle-age and I guess there always will be.

The thing is now I don't know if I could get married.  I don't know.  It's just that the young men that were my friends stopped when they got married.  With one person his wife seemed to be jealous of me when I came to visit and I never saw him again.  I know the reasons. Time, work, but deep down he should be having the kinds of conversations that he is having with me, a harmless, nonsexual threat and have them with his wife.  I just miss the conversations.  Stolen moments from the rest of the rotten world.

And here is the kicker.  Those males forgot who I was the next day, that's how bad it got or they wouldn't speak to me again.   It was amazing.  I found I would have to practically reintroduce myself after spending hours talking to them.  I poured my heart and soul into the conversations, spent time, asked personal questions, could tell a stranger his mother's favorite flower and I was left holding the bag, wondering what I had done wrong once again.  It always felt like my fault.  It still does.  And each time it happened I found myself getting more and more guarded.  A terrible combination with my looks.  I often think, "If only I was a nice fat person."

Fighting my Agoraphobia or not being able to go Outside

thought I would talk about my messed up childhood, since every one seems to like it. (said with a sarcastic note) No, I think going over it helps a bit and as far as I can tell most think they had a screwed up childhood. I think the difference with mind is that it wasn't my family that caused all the pain.  I mean yea, we had our moments, but I don't look to them as the defining point when I turned whack-a-doodle.  It has been the people outside my door that have affected me so much.  I have tried to forget most of it, but it is ingrained in me even though I don't want it to be.

I said to myself, "I think you are suffering from agoraphobia." That was in 2002.  I had just finished fashion school and despite my flurry of resumes I was unable to get a job.  I couldn't even blame my looks because I never got any interviews.  One job was for a doll company, something that I have been doing all my life.  I figured I would at least get a call, but nothing.  I had plenty to do.  I am able to fill my days without much of a problem, but I started noticing that I couldn't go outside.  I used to go shopping.  I would go to resturants.  I did everything, but slowly that all stopped.  No one asked me out.  Most, if not all of my friends were older or had children they needed to care for, so hanging out had disappeared.  I told myself I would go out if someone asked me to, but no one ever did.  My mother asked me to bring in the groceries from the car, a weekly need, and I remember clearly my rapid heartbeat, not from the work, but from the fear of seeing the blue sky.

I don't really feel fear in certain areas.  I don't worry about being attacked walking down the street.  I know I will fight back.  I have grown up in a home that left its door unlocked all the time and that was in southern California.  My fear is normally people base and to feel it so harshly was debilitating for me.  It was so miserable I was unable to leave my room and go to other rooms of the house.  It even got so bad my mother actually mentioned how I was acting.  I passed it off in front of her, but I knew then that if my mother noticed and said something then my problem was at critical mass.

The strange part was I think the beginning of my problem was when I became a teenager.  7th grade wasn't that bad, but every thing after was so harsh I barely survived.   Everyone watches celebrities.  We know who they marry and about their children.  For that to happen they need to be followed all the time by the paparazzi.  They have people calling their name from every direction.  They have people interrupting their dinners asking for autographs and once in a while we hear about something negative like an egg being smashed or Tom Cruise with the water squirted at him.

Now imagine that same treatment, except instead of the fawning crowds we have nasty, violent teenagers.  It was a trial just to walk home.  I do not know why people feel like they have the right to say what ever they want to another, but I used to get a horn honk and then the shout of some bad word and an attack on my character or looks.  They weren't even that clever.  It was just "Bitch!"  out the window most of the time.  I would count each day how many people would shout something rude out of the car. (I got into the teens on time and that was only after a block of walking home.)  I had babies ask their mother about why I was so fat.  I had mother's laugh at me.  I had people interrupt my dinner with a rude comment.  Every where I went. NONE STOP!  It was killer.  As soon as I got one gang of kids to stop harassing me another would take over.  It really was hours every day and they only way I could be free of the constant attacks was to hide.  I hid in empty class rooms at lunch because I learned not to be an open target.  I hid in closets.  I hid in cars.  I hid in my house and I hid in my room.

It was really tough because I wanted so much to have a "normal" childhood.  I read books.  I watched movies.  Wasn't I meant to go to school dances.  Wasn't I meant to fall for a guy and have him like me back.  I have a memory of trying.  I went to a church dance.  Worst experience of my young life.  I knew the boys weren't going to ask me to dance, they had a hard time with the cute skinny girls.  So with much bravery I asked one of them.  I got a "no."  Okay, I can handle that.  Everyone gets rejected.  Let's try someone else. "no."  I got a "no" from every boy in that room.  Finally one of the male chaperons felt sorry for me and he asked me to dance.  The girl I had come with was busy roaming the halls in a fruitless action that I did not understand and did not want to be a part of.  I spent most of the night on a folding chair.  I remember saying to myself, "Why would you want to do this to yourself again?"  And I never did go to another dance, not even my prom.  What for?

My experiences in public have been excruciating.  I'm surprised I went and did any thing at all.  One of my problems resulting from that point in my life is my tendency to say kind of mean things, but as a term of endearing. I am surprised and hurt when I find out I have hurt the other person's feelings.   I try now that I am older to walk on egg shells around other people and I find it to be totally exhausting, so I don't want to try anymore.  I admit I was harsh when I was young, very, very sarcastic.  It helped me to know who understood what I was feeling.  Nobody could understand what I was going through.  How do you mentally handle being told you are garbage every day and nearly every hour of your life?  I had to set up walls to survive.  Many a celebrity has died in those circumstances and I came very close to it.

I knew in my heart of hearts that I was not what these people called me.  I tried very hard to turn the attention to more positive things, but it really did not work.  So here I am in my mid-twenties feeling the heavy weight of failure.  I think since it was such a transition point in my life, I surcome to the fear.  I had always been able to push it back, but this time I couldn't do it.

It is kind of embarrassing how I got over my fear.  I actually talked myself out of it.  I really do like who I am.  I am impressed with the core of iron I have inside of me.  I guess it was something I was born with.  I told myself I did not want to miss out on anything because a stupid person was unable to keep there mouth shut.  I also told myself that now with everyone I grew up with having babies I did not look so abnormal to the world.  With age I was starting to blend in.   Now here in Virginia it doesn't matter.  I wonder when I look at the mass of humanity who do not bat an eyelash at how they look, I wonder how my childhood would have come out.  Would I have been made fun of as much?  Who knows?

What is sad now is I am unable to leave the house.  It is a colossal effort and one that I am only willing to put forth for my Doctor appointments.  I call myself a shut in and this time it isn't self inflicted.  The funny part is how things have circled around.  I have to stay in the house and thank goodness I know how to live like this.  I can't imagine an active, outgoing person having to face the pain that I am going through every day, physical and mental.  I feel almost like I have been prepared for this crisis.

Hire Me

I would love to write in other blogs and share my hard earned experience and opinions.  I am a no B.S. writer that has gone through physical and mental abuse as a child and came out the other side.  My chronic illness has changed my views to what is most important in this life.

If you are interested in my style please email me at peckinxanth@gmail.com.

Thank you for your support.

Back in the Hospital

The Hospital that has become my second home.

 

I thought I would write on a scrap piece of paper while sitting alone in a hospital room.  Actually, Thinking about how to write my experiences down on this blog has helped me to come to terms with this unimaginable situation.  You see I want to write more on the emotional side of being ill, but I wasn't clear on how I really felt with the swirling of emotions I have been going through.  How do you not give up?  How do you endure?

I was surprised to find myself back in the hospital.  I went for a check up and my Doctor, himself rolled me to the admission area and said put this girl in the hospital.  It was Monday, the 16th of Dec.  I thought I would be out in time to celebrate Christmas with  the family that was coming to visit. The wound had become infected and I was so mad to lose the progress I had gained.  I could put my foot down with the aid of a walker at that point.  I found myself once again being prepped for surgery.  It was a cruel sense of deja vu.  My foot was once again clean out and the wound vac was attached to my foot.  A device that creates negative pressure that helps the flesh to grow back together.  It also takes the fluid and junk out of the wound.  I have to have on 24 hours a day.  I need to plug myself in all the time.  The hospital version was quite heavy and it was a pain to move around.  Finally I learned to put it in a certain place and then I would be tethered to it like a dog on a leash, then add the IV and I had hoses getting tangled.  It was pretty tough to go to he bathroom which I never wanted to do since it was such a pain in the butt.

I have horror story after horror story of the things that I have had to endure this past month.  Just today I was getting a new IV put in.  I told the nurse to use a smaller needle, but they hardly ever listen to me.  My veins are small, deep and roll away from the nurses.  Getting my IV is the worst experience.  I have brusies from blown veins and you can see the holes of all the needle pricks, but it doesn't matter how much they hurt you.  It has to be done.  So this nurse found a vein, but the needle was to big and the vein "blew" or will not accept the fluid.  It really hurts when that happens and the pain lasts for days after with huge bruises forming.                

 Result of a blown vein.  

Today I was watching the nurse work on me which I don't normally do.  I watched as the needle pushed out fell to the floor and a spurt of dark red blood spurt out of my hand.  I was shocked to see it happen, but after this last month it was old hat for me.  I grabbed a cotton ball and pressed  into the wound taken aback by how much blood.  She tried again and then gave up and got another person to come in and try.  The nurses were saying how well I was taking the bad results, but what am I going to do?  I wish I could say no.  I wish I never had to go to the torture chamber known as the hospital.  I now have to have a needle  embedded in my hand until my next visit.       

                                                                                              

Living with an IV needle every day.

While in the hospital I had to endure test after test.  I think they were going a bit overbroad with them, but that is because each test usually meant that I had to do something I didn't like.  They did an ultra sound of my kidney's and of my leg to check for a heartbeat.  They collect my urine for a 24-hour test to check my kidneys.  They scan my bladder.  They did a bone scan and the injected me with this horrible radioactive stuff to see the veins in my foot checking for blood flow. And I only found out what all these test were for because I would ask the technitions.  If I didn't ask question constantly then I would know nothing about my situation.  The nurses were surprised that I paid attention and remembered.  I was alone most of the time and I know that I have to be responsible for my own care.

I did rebel.  Stupid people are plentiful in hospitals.  This lady came up right when something horrible was happen to me and asked for a urine sample.  I asked back what it was for and she said a pregnancy test.  I said it really would not be nesscary since I do not engage in the behavior that would make me pregnant. (I said no.  I don't have sex.)  She came back and said she had to have my pee, so I could do the test.  I was so tried of not being believed.  I was so tired of no one listening to me that I refused to give her my pee.  I purposely peed away from the collection hat.  It ended up delaying the bone scan test until the next day.  I felt smug actually affecting the mess of people constantly bothering me.  They ending up taking blood, but the thing is I realized that in the hospital I have to do everything I hate. I wanted to scream just leave me alone! But it wasn't just leave me alone.  I also was dying for a connection to somebody.  I need a deeper form of interaction.  The hospital was killing me emotionally because it is so shallow in there.  I know it has to be like that, but it doesn't mean I will flourish in that type of environment.

It was important to me to be very nice to the constant wave of nurses that would come in every 12 hours.  Some were better than others, some you clicked with and some you don't.  I wish that the same rotation of nurses would come back.  It is hard for me to have a stranger take care of me.  I don't trust people in general and I wish that I could form some kind of connection with the person that was being paid to cause me pain, but also was my lifeline to information and care.  I can be fun and nice.  I like to act that way, but it is such a drain on me.  It was becoming more than I could bear.  Worse, they had the date written right in front of the bed and I was watching as the date was getting closer and closer to Christmas with no word from the doctor on when I could go.  I was getting very anxious and frustrated.

After 5 long days of being in the wound ward I was sent to the rehabilitation part of the hospital.  It is long term care and that kind of worried me.  That place was lonely.  The nurses left me alone for hours.  My mother hurt her leg before Christmas and could not come to visit.  It was amazing that we could find something to talk about on the phone every day for hours.  I like my Mom.  I got a couple of visitors, but basically I had a TV, kindle and cross-stitch.  My body hurt so much after being in the hospital so long..  That place has the most uncomfortable furniture in all of history.  My back hurt, so bad I couldn't sleep.  I was asking for pain pills to battle the body pain, not for my foot.  I also totally lost my appietite.  I kept getting low blood sugar attacks.  Once I felt it coming on and the RNA took my sugar.  It was 57.  I thought I was dying and she said don't worry it's only 3 points into critical.  For someone who has been dealing with 150 sugars the difference was almost beyond my ability to endure.

Meanwhile the 25th was coming closer.  I was praying all the time that I would get out by the 24th.  My family came to vist and here I am in the hospital.  I was feeling very desperate like a wolf stuck in a trap.  I saw the irony of chewing off my own foot to escape.  Finally the Doctor came in and checked the wound.  He wasn't very positive about it.  I asked if I could leave.  He said no I had to get my antibiotic.  I told him about the loss of appetite and the pain.  I felt being in the hospital was starting to hurt me more than help.  To my abosolute joy, he said I could go home.  I couldn't believe it.  I was getting out before Christmas!  I was getting out of the dungeon.  And then the wrost thing ever happened.  They said I had to get the home version of my wound vac.  What?  I could not go until it was delievered to the hospital and they believed that wouldn't happen until the day after Christmas.  I was crushed beyond belief and called home crying.  I asked my Mom what can we do?  She said she would call the company and see what could be done while I called the social worker.  She was not very nice saying that if I left the hospital before the wound vac came I would no longer receive care.  I was devasated by how heartless she was acting.  I begged to have something be done.  She denied me and I thought all was lost.  They my super hero mother got in contact with the company, found out they have an office in Richmond, Virginia, which is 3 hours away.  They had sent a driver out and gave her a tracking number.  Mircle, the vaccum arrived that night, the 23rd.  The nurse was so nice she came in to say the Doctor had not given orders to release me yet and that I would have to stay another night.  I told her it was okay I had expected that.  I rolled out of that hospital on the 24th of Dec.  Christmas eve.

I was a lump for Christmas.  I was unable to do much of any thing, but I can walk without a walker. It was so wonderful to sleep in my own bed.  The recliner is a little slice of heaven to me.  The kids that came to visit were very nice to me.  We played some games which is a family tradition and when I had to put my foot up and rest they left me alone.  It is always a lot of work when people come to stay at your house, but I am glad my Dad and Mom were willing to do it.

Unfortunatly, the kids got sick and poor Mom followed.  She gets so bad.  It seems to become pneumonia each time.  Luckily I asked my aunt Debbie to come and take care of me.  I had a tickle in my brain that told me to ask her.  I knew my Mother would break down and reinforcments had to be called.  We were very lucky she come on the 31st and stay until the 5th.  The timing was amazing, since Mom was so sick she couldn't get out of bed.  If Debbie wasn't here I think I would have had to survive on Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  She is/was amazing.  I could ask her for anything knowing she was there for me. It is beyond comforting to have a belly full of nice warm food.  It wasn't that fun of a trip for her since all we did was go to the hospital, but I love talking to my Aunt Debbie and that made her visit very special to me.  She has had to deal with her family members getting sick and that has given her the ability to be an awesome caretaker.  I cried when she left.  I cried because I knew I would not get the care that a loving relative can give.  This is when I wish I had a daughter to take care of me.  This is when I wish I had my own family.  I picture myself alone and desperate in a disgusting nursing home where people are lonely and dying all around me.  One of the problems with being alone.

The complicated bandage I have to live with.  The black is the sponge where the junk is being pulled out.  The suction cup is the beginning of the hose.  It must have a perfect seal to work. 

So the hospital has not been the end of this trial.  At first I had to go to the hospital every other day to get an infusion of a very powerful antibiotic call Vancomycin.  The effort to get my body to move is tremendous for me.  I have to get clothes on.  Make sure I have a change of dressing for the Wound Vac. Find everything I need for the Hospital. It is awful to get in and out of the car.  I have been so weak.  I can't walk very far without my legs starting to tremble.  It is so hard for me to accept.  I want to walk.  I want to take care of myself, but I find I have to ask for help, another thing that is so difficult for me.  I get to the hospital and they place me in an out-patient room.  My blood is drawn and I have to wait an hour for my blood to be tested.  They are checking for the trough and peaks, basically what the antibiotic is doing to me.  My dressing is very complicated and only certain people can change it.  It requires this highly sticky plastic and sponges.  The sponge cannot touch my bare skin, so this elaborate structure has to be put on my leg.  Once it is there it doesn't bother me except for the hose trialing off my body and constantly getting in the way.  The hose has two stoppers on it and I seem to step on one every day.

The Wound Vac.  It has become my constant companion.  I have to carry every where.  It make a putt-putt noise.  If that changes I know there is a problem.  It also beeps and has alerts on the screen.  I step on those white stoppers all the time.  They allow for the hose to be detached, so I can take a shower.

The worst was when the hose fell off  my leg when I walked in the door after being at the hospital for more than 6 hours.  I was very upset and cried in front of my Dad knowing I had to go back to the hospital.  The nurse was swamped with people and it took her over two hours to fix my bandage.  Another time I accidently got my hose stuck in the recliner.  It was early morning, so I couldn't call for help and I really needed to go to the bathroom,  I ripped the hose off.  This time I decided to fix it myself. I figure out the get a new hose and attach it to the black sponge.  It worked and I didn't have to go back to the hospital again. So along with my dressing change I have to get the antibiotic which takes 2 hours to drip into my veins and that is if the machine doesn't react to a bubble and stop. requiring a nurse to start it again.  I have been there for hours upon hours.  I get so frustrated and angry because I think that every thing should go in a timely matter.  I should NOT be there for hours sitting in a room doing nothing.  That drives me nuts.  I think let's get this going now.

The wrost is every time I go something awful happens.  It has almost become a cliché.  I had a nurse drop the spomge on the ground and place it directly into my would.  I have spent 30 minutes getting an IV with blown veins.  I had an IV fail and my forearm swelled to twice its normal size.  That one scared me because there was a huge bump behind the IV and then a drop off to see the rest of my arm was normal.  It was very painful.  She removed the IV and then proceeded to put another one in my other hand because there was still an hour of medicine left.  Thankfully I had a friend there I could talk to and take my mine off the constant waves of sorrow.  I wanted to feel sorry for myself, but I wanted to enjoy her company more, so I didn't feel the emotional pain.  Thank goodness for small favors.  I was so glad she stayed with me, it makes a difference.  I now know to go early.  I take my Kindle, Ipod and my cross-stitch (almost done).  I have also learned to take my lunch.  I have a salad, some chips and water.  Today was the best day besides the bloody IV.  I went in at 11am and got out at 4:30pm.  I think that was a record.

So for the news from the Doctor.  I think he is tried of me.  As a surgeon, he seems to be used to taking care of the problem, the person heals and he is done.  By the way, I didn't pick this Doctor.  I was referred from my usual Doctor.  I thought I was just going in for a visit and then this mess happen.  He doesn't talk much.  I'm lucky if I get a sentence out of him.  I asked how long the antibiotic.  He said he did not know.  This last dressing change he said, "I don't know if this is ever going to heal."  What does that mean? Was the thought that popped into my head.  Am I going to have a chuck of flesh out of my foot for the rest of my life?(That is how my Aunt described the wound.  Frist she said, "It looks like chicken" I replied, "Don't you mean Pork, since they say we are close to pigs.")  Are they going to take my foot after all this work?  Not very comforting.  He said again that the wound was in a very bad spot and because of my sugars.  I guess it doesn't matter that I have tried very hard to bring them down.  I have diabetes and that means I am screwed.  My friend asked about the antibiotic and he said he would give it to me every day if it wasn't hurting my kidney's.  When he left I said to my friend, "This is the first time I am going to say I am grateful for my kidney failure."   I could not handle every day.  Bow I have been going every 4 days.  It takes me 3 of those days to recover and feel human enough to get in the car and do it all again.

I find the hospital to be a very ironic place that I despise.  I am very impressed with those that can volunteer and give help.  I only know it as a house of pain that uses the guise of getting you better.  I have to push down my natural instinct to fight against the system.  I hate being a number.  I hate the detactment of the people.  I know they have to be.  I know they have to keep sticking me with a needles even if blood is shooting out.  I know they are trying to make me better.  I know all of this so I submit.  I have resigned to the pain, to the difficulties.  I have resigned myself to the fact that this is now my life.  It doesn't matter that I loth every part of it.

Be Prepared to Lose your Foot

Since becoming sick I can only compare the experience to being on an old fashion railroad mail truck, you know, the kind from the cartoons with the two characters pumping a metal bar back and forth.  I feel like I am riding the rails unprotected.  I figure at some point my number will be up and I will meet a 40 car cargo train going the other way in a clandestine meeting which I will not win. 

This last experience, which I am still going through, feels like a very close call.  I guess the track was switched in time because I was paying attention, but it could have resulted in a pretty ugly affair.

It actually started when my left foot started to bother me.  It was slight.  I thought I caused the problem.  When I sit at the computer my foot does not like to be on the floor pad down, so I bent it and kind of rubbed it against the hardwood floor, so I thought I had irritated it.  I asked my mother if there was a mark where the pain was coming from and she said, "What do you mean that scab that has been there for 9 months?"  So since it had been there for so long I didn't worry about it because I have been going to the Dr.

The problem is where the spot is.  It is on my left foot on the outside arch meaning that I can not see it.  I can not see if it changes or what the spot looks like.

Well, I fell down in the back yard trying to get into the car.  It was stupid.  My mother parked a bit close to the wall and I was trying to see if I could fit in between.  I was so concerned with this that I forgot about the canopy pole drilled into the ground to help protect the cars.  Luckily I think, I fell onto the car hood first and then the ground, so it was a softer fall.  Unfortunatly the pole had twisted my right leg.  I was bed bound for 3 days, barely being able to get to the bathroom.  During this time the pain from my right leg over shadowed anything that was happening with my left.  Finally, I felt well enough to take care of myself and my parents went off to a concert and left me alone.  That night the pain in my left foot became unbearable.  It was so bad I couldn't get myself any food. 

The next morning I told my mother of the pain.  She looked at the spot again and this time I could hear the concern in her voice.  I  called for an appointment with my Doctor, but he couldn't see me until Tuesday a full 5 days later.  My mother said it looked red and infected.  She was worried that Tuesday was too long.  I real did not want to go to the ER.  It is so hard in there and I would only do it as a last resort.  You see I still wasn't worried.  I could not see it and the pain wasn't quite unbearable.  Mom had the best idea then.  I am really grateful because her idea got me the help I needed.  She told me to call my Doctors nurse.  I have her direct number and my mother left a message telling her about the spot.  The nurse called back saying they thought the spot was infected.  She referred me to a surgeon and even set up an appointment for the next day.

Where the sore is on my foot.  Right in a spot I can't see.

I hadn't eaten for too long and I asked my mother for some oatmeal.  Then we attempted to get to the car.  The pain in my foot was excruciating.  It had grown each day and now it felt as if every time I put my foot down I stepped on an extra sharp, extra vicious Lego.  My foot would automatically jerk back up.  It wasn't too bad to the car because the grass is soft.

We endure the process of getting to the Doctor.  I asked for a wheelchair because I knew I could not walk.  The surgeon took one look at the sore and said, "We need to do surgery right away.  Be prepared to lose your foot."

My jaw dropped.  What?!  What?!

My mom went running out of the room trying to call anyone for help.  It turned out that most of our friends were helping another friend move at the same time.  I told her not to worry.  We had plenty of time because I had eaten the oatmeal they had to delay the surgery until the next day which just so happen to be Saturday.

I was checked into the hospital and went through that process.  The IV is a nightmare on me.  My veins roll away from them.  It is the worst because they see the vein.  It taunts them, big and ready to be poked.  Then it moves on them and they dig the needle in trying to catch it only to miss, remove it and then have to do it again.  Over 30 minutes of this torture and the nurse finale gets into my index finger.  It felt like liquid fire every time they used it.  I hated it of course. 

The surgery was bearable.  Because it was Saturday I got the people who wanted to be there.  There was no recovery room or other people there, just me.  The anesthesiologist did an amazing job.  That was the first time I woke from surgery an did not feel sick to my stomach or like I was paralyzed.  The surgeon saved my foot and took out a 2.5 centimeter section of my foot.  He actually told me that they did not know why that part of my body died.  I asked if there was anything I could do to prevent it and he said no.  The problem is having high blood sugars.  That makes it difficult for the body to heal and the feet are the first to go.  I was only in the hospital for 4 days.  I was begging him, crying to be kept in there a little longer, but they get you out as soon as you reach the requirements.  I just knew my house could not handle me.  The walk from the car to the door is unbearable and I was forced to use a walker.  I hit my foot on the step coming in and I almost fainted from the pain.

      

The long walk I have to take to get to the car.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
They got me on a schedule in the hospital and I have tried my best to keep it.  I am eating 3 meals a day at a regular time, taking my insulin and doing every thing the professionals are telling me to do and it still isn't working.  My sugars are lower, but still not under what they would call "controlled". It frustrates me to no end because I want to do what's right.  I want to do what will help me.

I have a home nurse coming to help with the wound every other day.  She puts on a new bandage and checks my progress.  The Doctor did not like how slow the healing process was on me so he ordered a "Wound Whack".  I was freaking out because all he said when I asked for clarification was, "Oh, you will know it when you get it."  It sounded very ominous to me, so for two days I am thinking the nurse is going to come to the house with some medieval looking tool with spikes on I and have to "whack the wound" to get it to start healing again.  I was nervous and just a little bit scared.  Finally the nurse comes over and we ask her if she brought the "Wound Whack".  The poor nurse just stared at us very confused by what we were asking.  Then it hit her and she started laughing.  My Doctor has a very thick accent and when I thought he had said wound whack, he had actually said wound vac. 

We were all laughing to tears.  My nurse said she comes over to our house for comic relief.

She then started to describe the small pump that would be attached to my wound and help it heal.  It sounded horrible and I was willing to have the wound whack after hearing about being attached to a machine 24 hours a day.  It helps to keep the liquid off of it and through negative pressure get the would to heal from the inside out.

I was getting ready for that process when trouble started very fast.  The nurse arrived on Weds. changed my bandage with everything looking good.  I woke up on Thursday with a sharper pain in my foot then normal so I took a pain pill.  The nurse looked at my wound on Friday and freaked.  She thought it was infected again.

Noooooooooooo!!!!  The nurse got me antibiotics that night and said if I had any bad symptoms to go to the ER because we were facing the weekend.  I actually felt better on the medicine and thought that everything would be OK when I meet with the Doctor on Monday.

That thought proved to be wrong.  The Doctor took one look and I found myself in a wheelchair with the Doctor pushing me to the hospital and admitting me 10 days before Christmas.

And so I will write of the continuing story.