A Leg to Stand On

 

When I worked as a hospital chaplain, I used to tell my peeps, "Don't have to go to the Emergency Room during the last few days of June or the first week of July. You're likely to be tended to by someone who's been a licensed doctor for about a week."

Already you can see where this is going.

For two weeks I've been plagued by a surprise pain and swelling in my right ankle. It got a bit worse during the first days of this week, while I was away with my peeps on a quilting retreat. The Renegades were considerate, solicitous, and even a bit bossy ("You really need to see the doctor"). I assured them that I did, in fact, have an appointment with the orthopod for late in the week; we were scheduled to talk about the beginning deterioration of my left knee and I promised to bring the right ankle into the conversation. So they settled down and did my share of the dishwashing, reminded me to sit and elevate, and hauled my heavy stuff on the steps. They are the best.

And we had a wonderful time wherein I produced two more gorgeous hats and five additional pineapple blocks.

I got to the 3:15 appointment with the orthopod right on time and was seen within a half hour. We spoke very briefly about the designated left knee and then switched our attention to the misbehaving right ankle. He developed an uncharacteristic look of concern. "I think this may be a blood clot. I've ordered a venous Doppler STAT," and sent me off to the Emergency Room, prescription in hand.

I was seen in triage immediately. My normal 108/76 blood pressure was 174/78 (the words "blood clot" can do that, apparently), and I was asked to go to the waiting room and, by the way, the estimated wait time was four hours. It was 5:00 and I had plenty of time to count my fellow waiters; there were 35 including a cluster of snotters and hackers in one corner. I mentally dubbed them The Covid Family and steered clear. Most people were meticulous about masking and the vibe in the room, for the most part, was resigned, patient waiting. Just putting in their/our time. An outlier teen-age snotter wasn't keen on masking, so I stayed away from him, too. There was a long line of people waiting to be checked in to triage. In my years working at this hospital, the only time I'd ever seen a crowd like this was in January -- flu season. I settled in and exchanged pleasantries with a nearby person who graciously lent me her phone charger (mine was still packed -- for no good reason -- with my quilting supplies).

After two hours my name was called. It seemed I was being bumped ahead of some of those who'd been waiting longer, but who knows. I was taken to a gurney in a hall (space 509H, as in Hall, I presume) where there was a good view of the activity. I made myself [somewhat] comfortable and only then did it dawn on me: It was June 30! I was disregarding my own advice!

In short order I was approached by Dr. Brown (not his real name, but close enough). He was tired-looking, very nice, and had a reassuring amount of grey sprinkled into his slightly thinning dark hair. He palpated my ankle and calf and signed off on the ultrasound and I settled in for another anticipated long wait. But very soon a lovely young woman (she looked to be about fourteen but what do I know?) showed up and said, "I'm going to take you for your ultrasound." Hallelujah! She was an excellent driver, steering me through a traffic jam of gurneys going here and there. The ultrasound technician was chatty, competent, and gentle and she drove me back to 509H after telling me, confidentially, that there was no blood clot. 

It took another hour for Dr. Brown to receive the report, relate its findings to me, tell me to get a compression stocking (off to CVS later this morning) and elevate the leg a lot. And to try to see my primary soon. Venous insufficiency appears to be what we're dealing with.

I had to pass through that waiting room on my way out. There were many, many more people at 9:30 than there had been at 5:00. Many more. And there were at least a dozen more in line waiting to get into triage. Feeling oddly fortunate, I tipped the valet generously and drove home, where the love of my life made me a scrambled egg.