This Friday, July 27th, marks two years since Clotpocalypse.
I still remember everything about that day, from waking up to a leg still discolored and swollen from the night before. I remember being determined to go to work and getting dressed and driving myself to the office. I remember sitting at my desk, every few minutes lifting the hem of my skirt so I could compare the size of my legs. I remember walking into my manager’s office and the horrified look on her face when she saw my left leg. I remember the long, slow, shuffle down the hallway at the hospital. It was like trying to maneuver with a tree trunk attached to the lower half of my body. Like carrying dead weight: literally, what little circulation remained was at the very bottom of my foot. I remember the look on the ultrasound technician’s face and as soon as she said “I’m going to go get some help” I knew I was seriously fucked.
When BC went home to pack me an overnight bag, I remember asking him to also bring my Snoopy stuffed animal that I’ve had since childhood. Poor fella still has some dried blood on him from the one time my IV came loose and blood started spilling out (the stuffed dog, not BC).
I remember that both the nurse at the Urgent Care and the nurse at the hospital’s intake desk both share their birthday with me. (How fucking weird is that?)
I remember the feeling of waking up post-surgery. It was like coming up from air after drowning. Like I was underwater, the world inky and black with no horizon line, just darkness forever and then in a flash of bright light I was gasping for air as a plastic rope snaked up my throat (that would be part where the intubation tube was removed).
I was in the hospital for a week. The first few days were in ICU and then I was moved down to a regular hospital room which, if nothing else, gave me the freedom to walk myself to the restroom rather than deal with a catheter and bed pan. One week of continuous, round-the-clock blood draws every four or five hours. I got so used to them, by the end I was sleeping through even the 4:00 am visits.
Two years later and I’m still on blood thinners. I don’t know when — if ever — I’ll be off, which puts a serious damper on all future tattoos as I don’t know if they’ll heal properly. I get lazy about wearing compression socks daily, but I always wear them when I travel and do my foot exercises under the seat in front of me on the airplane. For awhile I was seeing my doctor every few months, but after my last appointment back in September he said not to come back for a year. So fingers crossed when I go back in a couple months he’ll have good news in that regard.
I don’t mind taking the pills I really just want some new ink LOL
I’m having a Christmas in July sale this week! Now through Sunday, signed copies of my book Running with a Police Escort: Tales from the Back of the Pack are $10 and coordinating Bondi Bands are $5. Visit my online shop today to save.