"Your leg looks disgusting, Bob"
I'm reaching back into the congested bowels of my parent's refrigerator when I hear my mother say these words while staring at my left leg. I know it was my left leg she was staring at, because that is where all of this crap started way back when almost fifteen years ago.
Shortly after that day when all of this crap started, I was dipping my ankle into a bowl of ice water. My mother was convinced I had somehow sprained it, even though I wasn't feeling any pain. I believed her. Maybe it's an internal sprain. Maybe it's so internal I can't even feel it. The ice water, aside from freezing the hell out of my ankle and foot, naturally did nothing to remedy the situation. The ankle was considerably swollen, and the rest of the calf wasn't looking much better. I had no idea what was going on, but I didn't have time to worry about any of that. I was getting ready to ship on down to The Pelican State. I chronicled some of my adventure down that way here.
The bloating was definitely not due to a sprain. Nor a broken bone, bee sting, insect bite, snake bite, spider bite, nor had my left calf gotten fat from all the Mighty Taco I was wolfing down during my college days in Buffalo. That went to a different part of my body. It was much more serious than any of that. Okay, maybe not more serious than certain poisonous snake or spider bites, but still.
Fast forward to now, Mom is sitting there dicing ingredients that will be thrown into some macaroni salad soon. I try to avoid the kitchen area when I can tell she is in there. Not because I dislike her (I don't), but I tend to enjoy kitchen time by myself. No need for others to be in there poking around, taking up space, trying to talk to me. I need total concentration in there. Things happen in there. Like making sandwiches. Or in this particular case, reaching for lemonade to mix with my cheap vodka I kept in the back bedroom.
"It's looked this way for years, what are you talking about?" I reply.
"Are you still taking your medicine?"
This is her usual question about it, as well as the question many others have asked the last couple years. Because for some reason everyone seems to think I'm going to actively choose to stop taking my pills.
For the record, that has only happened once. So, there.
I had quite a bit on my plate around 2008 or so. I was putting the kibosh on a toxic relationship, packing my belongings, and trying to move back home. This took up a great deal of time and energy. I was also trying to get a transfer into another store with the company I used to work for, a fledgling chain treading the water on bankruptcy and keeping their front line employees unstable about it. I decided to roll the dice and power through with them, even if it only meant a few more months at the new store before they shuttered the doors and everyone there got the boot.
Of course, the bigger course of action was actually getting the hell out of Arizona. To do such, I meticulously budgeted the trip and made sure my rest stops were still available. Settled some other business matters in the Valley and headed east bright and early one morning.
My health, well, I took a different approach with that. The plan with that, as far as I was concerned, was fairly simple. I had one refill left, and was going to get it filled on the other side of the country near Albany, New York. That is precisely what happened, and any further refills would need doctor's approval. Fine, no big deal. I'll find a new doctor once I get settled back home.
Only that's not quite the way it panned out.
I didn't even make it past Indiana's border when the company called and told me they would not be needing my services at the store near my home. Essentially, they decided to can me when I was most vulnerable - commuting halfway across the country. Just another expendable job title for them. It was a fitting end, as I wasn't really looking forward to the transfer anyway. I knew what the work would entail, and it would have been nothing short of urgent pandemonium. I'd inevitably have to do the job of roughly four people, and hate every minute of it while drinking alone in my car at lunch. I'd have a skeleton staff that would be just as apathetic in their approach, making the whole store a giant mess with little or no personnel to care for it - and the blame would fall onto me for that. But, it was a job, and gave me benefits to help me get some damn pills. Once the refill dried up, I was in trouble.
I exhausted just about every means to try and get more medication, but I encountered roadblock after roadblock. Medicaid, clinics, urgent cares, even my old doctor wouldn't write me another script as I was no longer one of her patients. So, I gave up. Stopped taking the pills once the bottle ran out. The stress of finding access to them, coupled with looking for new work, I just lost track of everything. Most important, I lost track of just how vital staying on top of my health can be. And that came back to kick me right in the ass. Or lungs, really.
My mother tries to be a jokester whenever I'm around, but doesn't always come off as such. While I was in the hospital for a clot, she mentioned the hospital would have been better had it been at the one closer to her. Occasionally, she'll slap my belly - because, well, it's not exactly a six-pack - as if I need to lose weight. Never mind I am the only one in my family who doesn't have diabetes (yet). I am also the only in in my family who can (or will) run. But, I'm out of shape to her. She keeps tabs on my health by asking me if I'm still taking my medication, and whether or not my Obamacare came through (it didn't).
And, I guess, by telling me my leg looks disgusting.
I'm reaching back into the congested bowels of my parent's refrigerator when I hear my mother say these words while staring at my left leg. I know it was my left leg she was staring at, because that is where all of this crap started way back when almost fifteen years ago.
Shortly after that day when all of this crap started, I was dipping my ankle into a bowl of ice water. My mother was convinced I had somehow sprained it, even though I wasn't feeling any pain. I believed her. Maybe it's an internal sprain. Maybe it's so internal I can't even feel it. The ice water, aside from freezing the hell out of my ankle and foot, naturally did nothing to remedy the situation. The ankle was considerably swollen, and the rest of the calf wasn't looking much better. I had no idea what was going on, but I didn't have time to worry about any of that. I was getting ready to ship on down to The Pelican State. I chronicled some of my adventure down that way here.
The bloating was definitely not due to a sprain. Nor a broken bone, bee sting, insect bite, snake bite, spider bite, nor had my left calf gotten fat from all the Mighty Taco I was wolfing down during my college days in Buffalo. That went to a different part of my body. It was much more serious than any of that. Okay, maybe not more serious than certain poisonous snake or spider bites, but still.
Fast forward to now, Mom is sitting there dicing ingredients that will be thrown into some macaroni salad soon. I try to avoid the kitchen area when I can tell she is in there. Not because I dislike her (I don't), but I tend to enjoy kitchen time by myself. No need for others to be in there poking around, taking up space, trying to talk to me. I need total concentration in there. Things happen in there. Like making sandwiches. Or in this particular case, reaching for lemonade to mix with my cheap vodka I kept in the back bedroom.
"It's looked this way for years, what are you talking about?" I reply.
"Are you still taking your medicine?"
This is her usual question about it, as well as the question many others have asked the last couple years. Because for some reason everyone seems to think I'm going to actively choose to stop taking my pills.
For the record, that has only happened once. So, there.
I had quite a bit on my plate around 2008 or so. I was putting the kibosh on a toxic relationship, packing my belongings, and trying to move back home. This took up a great deal of time and energy. I was also trying to get a transfer into another store with the company I used to work for, a fledgling chain treading the water on bankruptcy and keeping their front line employees unstable about it. I decided to roll the dice and power through with them, even if it only meant a few more months at the new store before they shuttered the doors and everyone there got the boot.
Of course, the bigger course of action was actually getting the hell out of Arizona. To do such, I meticulously budgeted the trip and made sure my rest stops were still available. Settled some other business matters in the Valley and headed east bright and early one morning.
My health, well, I took a different approach with that. The plan with that, as far as I was concerned, was fairly simple. I had one refill left, and was going to get it filled on the other side of the country near Albany, New York. That is precisely what happened, and any further refills would need doctor's approval. Fine, no big deal. I'll find a new doctor once I get settled back home.
Only that's not quite the way it panned out.
I didn't even make it past Indiana's border when the company called and told me they would not be needing my services at the store near my home. Essentially, they decided to can me when I was most vulnerable - commuting halfway across the country. Just another expendable job title for them. It was a fitting end, as I wasn't really looking forward to the transfer anyway. I knew what the work would entail, and it would have been nothing short of urgent pandemonium. I'd inevitably have to do the job of roughly four people, and hate every minute of it while drinking alone in my car at lunch. I'd have a skeleton staff that would be just as apathetic in their approach, making the whole store a giant mess with little or no personnel to care for it - and the blame would fall onto me for that. But, it was a job, and gave me benefits to help me get some damn pills. Once the refill dried up, I was in trouble.
I exhausted just about every means to try and get more medication, but I encountered roadblock after roadblock. Medicaid, clinics, urgent cares, even my old doctor wouldn't write me another script as I was no longer one of her patients. So, I gave up. Stopped taking the pills once the bottle ran out. The stress of finding access to them, coupled with looking for new work, I just lost track of everything. Most important, I lost track of just how vital staying on top of my health can be. And that came back to kick me right in the ass. Or lungs, really.
My mother tries to be a jokester whenever I'm around, but doesn't always come off as such. While I was in the hospital for a clot, she mentioned the hospital would have been better had it been at the one closer to her. Occasionally, she'll slap my belly - because, well, it's not exactly a six-pack - as if I need to lose weight. Never mind I am the only one in my family who doesn't have diabetes (yet). I am also the only in in my family who can (or will) run. But, I'm out of shape to her. She keeps tabs on my health by asking me if I'm still taking my medication, and whether or not my Obamacare came through (it didn't).
And, I guess, by telling me my leg looks disgusting.