The 1.5 Week Old Birthday is Over, Injury Blogging Redux, and I Get Crafty Again

So, a mess of things have happened since I last shouted at you. My latest 1.5 week birthday celebration ended with a visit from my parents! That was excellent, especially since in the whole of my life, I've only not ever celebrated the almost twin birthdays my mom and I share - me on the 23rd and she on the 25th - once in my life. And that was only because I was clear on the other side of the planet.

It was a weekend filled with talking and shopping and going out to eat. I kind of love that even though I live in another country, I'm still close enough to see my family and friends every couple of months. Current plans see me heading on back at the end of May for a weekend, and I can't wait - especially since, unlike the last time I was in town, it will be sunny and warm and messing about outside will be the call of the day!

In an If You Blog It, It Will Come moment, my parents brought with them a birthday present from my brother. A few weeks ago, I wrote about the excellence that is the Ball and Chain Kitschy Silhouette pendant collection. My brother, being excellent and generous, made sure that not only one of their TVs, but one of their MixMasters would be mine! And man, I can't tell you how delighted I was, and still am; there was both clapping and squealing when they were opened. And there still might be clapping and squealing going on every time I put them on.

***

Long time readers my have noticed my lack of injury-blogging of late. Don't worry - I haven't smartened up any and started to pay attention to the world around me, I've just been avoiding detailing the latest traumas. But the current stupidity that I'm dealing with really needs a re-cap. First, the list of what I've accidentally done to myself since moving to Columbus:

• October 2007: Trip while running down stairs. Sprain right ankle.
• January 2008: Forget that ovens are hot when turned on. Burn right forearm badly enough to need to treat it with polysporin and cover with a bandage for a week.

And that brings you almost up-to-date.

Back at the start of 2005, before I started blogging over here, I fractured my right foot's fifth metatarsil (wanna read an account of the resultant robot foot and a trip to Calgary? Well, then, please do!). This has always rankled as I had just started running, and was enjoying adding on the solitary nature of exercising outdoors, and the different feeling I was getting from pushing my body in this new and excellent way.

I tried running in 2006 and could only get 20 minutes in before the area around the old fracture started to ache and I thought is smarter to stick to riding my bike outside, and the elliptical in the gym / recumbent bike at home. I tried again in 2007 and got up to two consecutive days of hour-long runs before the pain set in. Since I'm convinced that I would be an excellent runner, this pissed me all the hell off, and made me shake my fist at my foot in anger.

When I moved to Columbus, I became friends with Andrea, a runner who takes so much joy in it that she totally inspired me to try it again. With spring just around the corner, I felt it would be a good idea to get some indoor training in on the treadmill before hitting the pavement. I started up the first week of February. I was good for two weeks. And then the old injury pain, she set in again. And this time, she really hurt. Enough so that I began to overcompensate when walking, shift the weight off of that edge of my foot to the ball.

And guess what that resulted in? A strain between the 3rd and 4th toes, a 2-hour long wait in Urgent Care when the pain hadn't disappeared after 6 days, 3 x-rays to confirm that I hadn't developed a stress fracture, and a prescription for an anti-inflammatory.

It anti-inflammatory? A THING OF BRILLIANCE. Is it odd that I've never been on one before?

The Urgent Care facility? If there hadn't been people there, it would've been the kind of place that has a staring role on Celebrity Paranormal Project.

Here is where I spent the first 1.25 hours of my visit:



And here I am, all stare-y eyed, waiting in a the exam room to see the doctor for for an examination, prior to hobbling down desolate halls to the x-ray lab and back. Yes, that is a cast-bronze mouse pelvis around my neck.


***

Almost three weeks ago, my friend Jen and I began ceramics classes! Hand-building, I may suck at you now, but you will become my bitch. Indeed, you will! Will post pictures of my lop-sided creations when they get all glazed and fired.

So, that's baout it. I'm off to pout about the state of Columbus snow removal.

Bare Knuckle Brawler

I'm looking down at my hands right now, and they're a complete and utter mess. Mostly because I'm a klutz. Like Daphne, from Scooby Doo. Give me something hot to handle (except my ass. That's hotness that I can handle) and I'll show you a burn waiting to happen. Something sharp? Cuts a-plenty.

I've given up wishing for an incident-free life, as I know I'd be more likely to find out that I was (a) adopted, and (b) a princess. And since I look so much that the pharmacist that we share, who has never seen us together, felt it necessary to marvel over the resemblance last month.

I will always be accident prone. And I will always, eventually, make my way over here to injury-blog.

I reckon this serves as a warning, as slipping on ice weather is about to start. Let the pain begin!

Today, I had Cotton Balls Taped to my Inner Elbows

Warning: this is a follow-up injury blog post.

So why with the cotton balls? Because all the cool kids are doing it. Or because I decided to multitask while waiting for my clicky wrist examination appointment and pop into the lab next door to get blood drawn for my dermatologist, who wants to make sure that my liver doesn't turn to stone while I'm on the meds that he prescribed.

I haven't had blood drawn in a bargazillion years, and I must admit that I'm a wee bit fascinated with seeing vials filled with the stuff. Especially when my body decides to act up and make the lab tech work to get that crap into the vial.

Today I learned that the veins in the dominant side of your body are much more likely to give it up without complaint. The non-dominant? Not so much. "Tell me why!" they demand, "Convince me to fill up that vial, lady!"

And so, both inner elbows are now sporting lovely bruises. And, apparently, a small allergic skin reaction to the tape that held the cotton balls in place? That's right, freaking medical tape. I need to stop being surprised by these things, I really do.

In maraca-wrist news, my hand is not likely to fall off of my arm. And the clicking will likely subside when the swelling completely dies down. Likely - you know what that means. I'll let you know when my hand falls off. I'm thinking about replacing it with a chainsaw. Do you think that would be a good look for me?

Of Gimpy Fingers and Clicky Wrists

I am mine own worst enemy, as previous injury blog entries attest to. Sometimes I feel like I should wear a hazard symbol on my forehead, just to warn people that, quite possibly, if they stand too close, they may be sucked into my whirlwind of physical spaz.

So the wrist, she seems to be healing nicely. Until I start to make more and more use of it, doing things like rotating my hand. Because then? Then I feel a resistance. And a click. Oh, bother, that's just not right! The continued tenderness, I understand. The click? Not so much. And so then I do too much research on the possible cause of my timebomb wrist, and then I start to worry, and then I make an appointment to see my doctor tomorrow afternoon to make sure that my hand isn't about to fall off of my arm.

And then I look at my secretly broken finger, which healed up fine, but at a sad, silly angle, and I wonder if perhaps I'm starting to fall apart.

***

A couple of days ago, I found out that Chef Susur Lee is going to be taking part in a demo at Trish Magwood's Dish Cooking Studio in March. I considered attending, until I came across the price of a seat in the room. I reckon I would much prefer to spend $175 on eating a meal at his restaurant and purchasing a new shirt to wear at that meal.

Seriously, $175? That's freaking crazy-talk. But then, the studio's prices on cooking classes seems quite out of step with other places offering similar courses as well. See what happens when you have a show on Food TV? You get all crazy with the charges.

PS: My parents stopped by Anna Olson's Olson's Foods and Bakery last week, and were sorely dissappointed by both the selection and quality of the food offered up for sale. And the pricing? Also crazy.

But What if I Need to Cut a Bitch?

Thankfully, unlike Kimora Lee Simmons, the need to cut a bitch has never come up in my life. Which is good, since I still can't work a knife.

Lack of bitch cutting ability aside, things are looking up in my latest injury saga. On Friday, my orthopedic surgeon pronounced the crack in my radius quite wee. In fact, he decided against casting it up and gave me a new splint instead.

Regard my new, fight the future, swollen like a son of a bitch mummy hand:






























The good doctor's prognosis sees the crack healing up in two to three weeks time. Hot, and also, damn. Want to know what the funny thing is, though? The hurty bits in my wrist have naught to do with the placement of the crack, but instead are localized in all of that tissue that connect my badass hand (it can be quite rude, sometimes) to my wrist. Holding things of any weight makes it yelp, and don't even think about asking it to move from side to side, or to rotate. However, things hurt less then yesterday, which hurts less then the day before, and again and again and again. I reckon I'll be back to doing the queen wave (Why, Helloooooooooooo!), not to mention making threats of bitch cutting, in no time.

Meanwhile, it's excellent to be able to type with my right hand again. And I'm slowly but surely making myself become ambidextrious. I'll be a whirling, two handed knife wheeling dervish when this is all over and done with!

Things that might have been embarrasing if it was anyone else but me:

• Before leaving the emergency room on Tuesday, I had to ask a triage nurse to zip up my coat for me. Hi! I three!
• That evening, I had to call my mom and dad over to my place to CUT UP FOOD FOR ME. Hi! I three!

I swear, being injured leads to the most excellent, snort-worthy tableaux.

I Have a Mummy Arm

Because its about time for a new injury blog post.

Fell on ice, broke fall first with hand then with ass. Small crack in right wrist. Splinted. Fracture clinic will decide whether to cast it up on Friday. Guess who's also working from home for the next few days?

Why, yes, I AM right handed!

Send me chocolates to make it okay, please.

Its Gotta be Time for Another Injury Post

Not that I've up and hurt myself again, nono, but this post is dedicated to a past injury. A past injury that was misdiagnosed.

Remember three weeks ago when I crushed my finger at the gym? The doctor that looked at my x-rays that morning told me that I hadn't fractured the bone, and that I had a mere soft tissue injury.

That doctor, apparently, knows not how to read x-rays.

I went to my GP this morning because I've become quite concerned over the fact that my finger is still sauage-swollen, that I can't grip completely with it, and that it still hurts. She had the radiologist report. The radiologist report that stated, quite clearly, that the bone had been fractured.

Meanwhile, because it hadn't healed, I'd been envisioning a horrible future filled with microsurgery and tendon and / or ligament problems plaguing me for life.

So, emergency room doctor, I shake my fist, my fist with broken finger, at you. In anger!

Just a Hollaback Girl

My left hand pinky, that is. It really just refuses to think for itself, and mindlessly follows the lead of my ring finger. Which means that when I hold something in my left hand these days, it cocks out like I was some kind of lady who lunches, sipping tea from a cup made of fine bone china.

Thankfully, the head cheerleader finger hurts less today then it did yesterday, which hurt less then Wound-day Friday. This is good, sausage-like swelling aside.

I'm starting to think that my injury posts are my own style cat blog. And this disturbs me.

I Don't Know How I Do These Things To Myself

I really don't.

Picture, if you will, a slight woman, with physical strength that belies her appearance. Picture her at the gym, say, this morning. Picture her at the high row machine, shifting plate weights off of the machine's arms.

She holds a 45 lbs plate weight in her hands. Her left cradles the bottom of the weight, steadying it, while her right hand lifts and guides, sliding the weight off of the machine's right arm. As the weight nears the end of the arm, she slips. And the weight slips out of her right hand. And subsequently falls onto the middle section of her left ring finger, crushing it between itself and a weight held on a rack below it.

She utters a definative, yet almost silent GODDAMN!

The finger starts to throb. And swell. And the woman goes to the hospital to get it x-rayed.

The result? No break, thank god, but an equally painful and deep soft tissue injury.

Here's what my hand looks like now, injured digit taped to it's stalwart neighbour.











Let the mocking begin.