New Friends and a New Life

 I'm home. I've been home since the 14th. Being home is nice and a little scary. 

Janet picked me up and brought me home on Sunday, Dec 14th. Before leaving the hospital though, I got a fancy new boot and a cane to help me around in my house. 

Meet Harvey the Cane and Klause the Boot. Yes, I named them. I can't help myself. 

The boot is a "wedge" boot which has nothing under the toes. The wedge is in the back to keep all the pressure off the toes. It's been a challenge learning how to walk on it. But if learning to walk on it meant I can go home, then I'm all for it.

The cane and boot came with a PT specialist in the hospital who taught me how to walk on them and especially how to go up and down stairs. Who knew there was a right and wrong way to do that? 

I was still a little unsteady on them when I left the hospital and was sure glad to have Harvey around once I got home. 

The cat greeted me at the door then promptly ignored me for about an hour. I'm not sure he was sure I was sticking around. The poor guy had to spend a week alone with only Sherrie stopping by to feed and hug on him. Eventually he ended up in my lap as if life was back to normal. It wasn't yet, but we were on our way. 

I went right back to work on Monday. Happy for the distraction. Work peeps were amazing. The PMs picked up anything I had left, and took on all the new stuff. The boss was super understanding and willing to help me out where I needed it. They sent me some beautiful flowers while in the hospital too. It was unexpected and so very welcoming. I needed a little color in the dull hospital room. 

I have a Home Health Nurse coming in twice a week to take my INR (blood thinner number) and clean my wound. We're down to cleaning it every other day. For the days the nurse isn't here, Sherrie has stepped in to do it. (Have I mentioned how lucky I am to have such a good BFF?) There has been some talk of me doing it on my own, but I can't see it very well and am a bit uncomfortable with that. If I had to, I would, and I may have to. 

I have learned some new tricks this last week. I learned about Amazon Fresh. I can't shop you see so I had to get groceries into the house and Amazon Fresh was the answer. I miss grocery shopping. But for the next month this will do just fine. In fact, it's a little too easy. 

Now, here I sit on Christmas even wondering, yet again, how I got here. I've reached the acceptance stage of this adventure that this isn't a quick fix. It's a long game of healing. Healing takes time and patience and is SO VERY exhausting. Still, I've come to grips with the fact that I'll be down for the count at least through the end of January. Can't drive until the wound is completely healed over, and based on the look of it, it'll be weeks, if not months. 

One of the promises to the universe I made was that if I didn't have to do IV antibiotics at home, I would start paying attention to what I was eating. It hasn't been easy since I can't really cook much, but I'm making a plan and changing where I can. I'm sure the universe understands that I'm a slow learner and has given me a grace period to get used to this new reality. 

I bought myself a book to read to really, truly start understanding what being a diabetic means. I've been ignoring what this means and assuming that there weren't any real changes I need to make. I know that's wrong now and promised myself I'd learn more about this disease and how I can best management. 

I have weekly doc appointments now with the Infectious Disease doc. He'll be the main one I check in with now. Doc M, the podiatrist, wants me to visit him in a couple of weeks. I'd love to if I could get an appt. 

And so on this day before Christmas, I've stopped feeling sorry for myself. I'm learning to be patient and accept that this will take some time to heal and I'll be back on my feet in now time (pun not intended). I'm so very grateful for all the friends and family who have helped out either by driving me somewhere, bring me food and conversation, or just checking in. My tribe is very special to me and I've learned that they are here for me. It does take a village it seems. 

Bored and Anxious

We last left off with me sitting in hospital room wondering what the hell had just happened. I was ultimately in the hospital for 7 days. Seven LONG days. Let me give you a quick run down of what happened.

On Monday, Dec 8, Doc M, the podiatrist, came in to see me. He filled me in on the significant infection. They took cultures and needed to determine what bacteria was involved so they can focus the antibiotics. Until that time I’d be on three different, hard hitting antibiotics. I could expect some nausea and diarrhea for my troubles too. Yipee.

He also informed me that I’d be going into surgery Tuesday evening. They needed to get ride of the “dead” skin and what not and see just how far the infection went. He suspected it was into the joint and was hoping it wasn’t as far as the bone. If it was in the bone, I’d lose my pinky toe. If it was in the joint, it’d still be bad, but not as bad.

I met two additional doctors that night as well. The “hospitalist” doc who is the doc on the floor for several days; Doc E2 (not to be confused with the first Doc E I saw way back when). And the Infectious Disease Doc – Doc V – who was amusing and serious all in one. His specialty, besides infections, was wearing ugly Christmas sweaters every day of December. Hearing I was being seen by an infectious disease doc kinda freaked me out a little more. As if I didn’t realize how serious this was, THAT made it more serious to me.

He repeated what Doc M said and scolded me a little about how I should have come in sooner. He said the cultures could take 2-3 days to grow for them to know what it was. That’s about when I realized I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

If I’m being totally honest with myself, I didn’t have a CLUE what an infection looked like or signs of infection. I had always thought a fever meant you had an infection. I never had a fever. The Saturday before I had bad chills and was exhausted. It turns out that should have been my sign. I know that now.

 I slept like crap those first two nights. I had anxiety running through my veins and I just couldn’t turn off my brain.

Speaking of veins, by this time, I still have the two IVs in my arms, one on the left side and one on the right side. They are pumping me full of any and every antibiotic known to man. They took cultures, but don’t know what they are yet and so are hitting it as hard as they can with the hard stuff.

Surgery was scheduled for that Tuesday which meant I had to hang out all day Monday and anxiously wait for Tuesday. And not just Tuesday but Tuesday at 5 PM.

Because of the surgery the last time I could eat on Monday was by 9 AM. I was sure I was going to be starving by the time they took me back for surgery. Turns out anxiety tends to take away your appetite. I spent the day wondering what the heck was gonna happen. What was I going to do? What was the plan? How was I going to do this living by myself? I knew all these answers would be answered eventually but as you know, I’m a very impatient person. Guess this is another lesson I need to learn.

Surgery day came and went. The surgery was a success in that they were able to confirm it wasn't in the bone (Thank God) but it was in part of the joint. They "cleaned house" and feel like they got all the bad stuff out. Now it was the waiting game. More antibiotics, more waiting. That was going to be my next several days. 

The cultures were still not done so I waited. Daily visits from all three doctors. I lost count of how many different nurses and CNAs came in and out of my room. 

On Thursday, Infectious Disease doc closed down my bathroom because I had diarrhea and that meant I had to use the commode. Oh goody. As if the hospital stay wasn't bad enough. 

Finally on Thursday though, they had an idea of one of the bacterias was. I couldn't tell you what it was. All I know is it had a LONG name that was rattled off as if I was to know what it was. It's probably good then I couldn't Google it and freak myself out more. 

It wasn't all bad. Really, the only bad part was the boredom. Not a lot of interesting TV. Didn't want to read. I spent a lot of time contemplating my life choices and making promises out to the universe. 

I did have some visitors though, so that broke up the boredom. K&R stopped by and got to witness the cleaning of the wound. They brought me the most frustrating game ever...which kept my mind off things. F stopped by with hot chocolate and conversation. Janet stopped by twice. Once to get Wroamin to take him home and once to bring me clam chowder. Sherrie was constantly there too. She got to learn how to care for the wound for once I was home. She's a trooper that one. I really don't deserve her. I will be forever grateful for her though. 

Finally the day came when I was going home. Now the hard work would begin. I had some learning to do and it wasn't going to be fun. 

The silver lining here, if there was one, is I have zero pain. The curse and the blessing of neuropathy is you can't feel your feet. After watching all the poking, scraping, cleaning that went on with the wound I'm VERY glad I can't feel it. But, now I have to be extra diligent it seems. Another lesson has been learned. 

The Unexpected Hospital Stay

It could never be said that I am not the queen of learning life’s lessons the hard way. Why is that? Is it human nature? Or just my nature? I often soften the fall by saying we learn more from our mistakes, and I do believe that, but I could have gone a lifetime without this lesson.

It was a gray overcast Sunday, typical of the PNW this time of year, when I decided that perhaps I take myself off to urgent care to have them take a look at my poor foot that was looking worse by the minute. Maybe I should back up to tell the story of how I got here.

This adventure all started when I discovered what I thought was a blood blister on the bottom of my right foot after we got back from Greece. I’m sure it happened in Greece because there’s no other reason for me to have a blood blister that size other than for the miles and miles that we walked on our trip. Perhaps my shoes weren’t as great as I thought they were.

Once I showed the family, they immediately said to get to the doctor. Well, getting to a doctor these days takes an act of congress I swear. I was fortunate to beg and plead enough that they were able to get me into a doc to look at my foot. It wouldn’t have been so hard if, while in Greece, I hadn’t received a letter saying my primary care doc left Evergreen hospital. So, without a primary care it’s almost impossible to get an appointment.  

The appointment was a week out so I monitored and photographed the sore to have something to share with the doc. The doc I got was AMAZING. He was an older doc who was the kindest, understanding, and gentle. I wanted him to be my new primary doc – sadly he was retiring in 6 months.

Doc E took a look at my foot and he thought it best to send me to a podiatrist who specializes in diabetic foot ulcer.

Yep. I said what I said. He diagnosed it as a diabetic foot ulcer. I wouldn’t google that if I were you. It still looked more like a blood blister to me, than a foot ulcer. He said any wound on the foot of a diabetic can turn into a foot ulcer. Oh goody.

So off to Doc M a week later. I was sitting in his office starting to really worry about what it was and what it meant to me. Doc M took a look at it, cleaned it up, wrapped it and gave me strict instructions to care for it. And to set up a mtg for a couple of weeks out. Off I went.

I swear I followed his instructions as best I could. I did not walk around the house barefooted. I put gauze on it twice a day. I covered it. I didn’t get it wet. I didn’t walk around without shoes. I was doing all the things. Or so I thought. In hindsight now, I can see where I didn’t follow these instructions perfectly. I took a shower one day without covering it – I forgot. I had to run to the bathroom one day without it being covered. So maybe these small missteps got me to where I am. No matter. I’m here, now we deal with it.

Then the first week of December, my boss came to town and we all met at a coffee shop to work and then go to a Christmas dinner. Being out of the house and sitting instead of lying back with my foot up on the recliner, cause the foot to swell a little bit. I thought. Thursday night it was swollen and a little red. By Friday, it was MORE swollen and MORE red. Saturday I was contemplating going to Urgent Care, but I thought I’d just watch and see. By Sunday, it was getting even worse. So, I put on my big girl pants and went off to urgent care.

Urgent care sent me to the ER. While there, the nurse on duty got me all hooked up to IVs for fluids. By this time, I’m panicking a little. I’m picking up on the serious expressions and concern with each nurse/doc that comes in. The on call doc, Doc David, casually comes in, takes a look at my poor pinky toe and foot for like 15 seconds, then states matter of factly that “we’ll probably have to amputate” and walked out.

WHAT? Amputate! Amputate what? My foot? My pinky? What? Now real panic is setting in.  

Honestly, I just don’t think you should drop that kind of word on someone who’s already in a fragile mental state of being admitted into ER. 

Within a matter of 2 hours of leaving my house, I’m admitted into the hospital with a whole lot of questions, 2 IVs dumping massing antibiotics and a stunned woman who is trying to figure out what just happened.

They took some cultures. They did some other tests but really didn’t tell me much other than it’s a significant infection. I felt judged and scared. And in that room, I sat now for six straight days, staring at the walls, staring at the TV, staring at my foot, and doom scrolling like nobody’s business. All the while wondering what the hell this meant.