Forgive me this moment of blatant self-pity

This day can go right to hell.

As I write this, I'm semi-perched in my computer chair with my leg resting on a leopard print pillow on top of my sadly-neglected Nevada amplifier.  I'm bent like a contortionist trying to keep my leg elevated.  My belly itches and aches at the needles entry point and will probably become a black and purple angry mess any moment now.

Why the Cirque Du Soleil act?  Good Question.


Right at this moment I grapple with the possibility that my blood cells, those belligerent, sticky little bastards, nay, those belligerent sticky motherfuckers have once again decide to conspire against me and throw a rather nasty wrench into my otherwise contented day-to-day.

Earlier today I checked myself into Emerg to investigate the pain I'd been experiencing in my leg since late yesterday morning.  Initially I had thought I was dealing with discomfort from bad shoes, what between my flats that are too worn, heels that I don't normally wear that are too tight and sandals that are too big.  Anyone of these things can screw with your posture and in turn your joints and muscles.  But given my history, after more than 24 hours of not excruciating, but definitely irritating pain that would not completely subside no matter how much I walked, stretched, shook and massaged the leg, I decided it would be prudent to see a doctor ASAP.  And since ASAP to my doctor's office means "In roughly 2-3 weeks" then the Emergency department it was.

Oh, yes.  Dear GBGH, is it too much to ask that you open up an extra 3-4 emergency parking spaces?  Bad enough I'm AT the hospital, but I have to pay five bucks for visitor parking as well?  P.S. Whatever they tell you about hospital wait times in Canada, take it with a grain of salt because it depends on the hospital.  I waited maybe an hour and a half before I saw the doctor.

So the scoop is this.  Until I can get an ultrasound tomorrow, they're treating it as another blood clot.
Hoo-Rah.

I was given a shot of Heparin by a nurse who told me that it would likely bruise, as though I hadn't had hundreds of these shots, most of them administered myself, often with better results than the nurses.  I'm no stranger to the vicious subcutaneous bruising that injectible bloodthinners are capable of creating, no sir.

So, suffice it to say, I'm freaking out a little.  There's still a chance that it could be something as innocuous as a pulled muscle, a hamstring perhaps?  Does anyone know where your hamstrings are?  But, being prone to worrying, I'm not real optimistic at this point. My head is swimming with the knowledge that if, worst case scenario this is another clot, I'll likely be put on anti-coagulants indefinitely.

Three times is the charm, folks.

It may also mean having to rethink my employment situation as a desk job is definitely not ideal when one has circulation issues.  Perhaps I could blog professionally?  What professions are there that don't involve A) sitting all day or B) standing all day?  I don't think I'm hardy enough for the trades.  Postal Worker perhaps? 

So as I sit and pity myself and worry myself into a state, I'm also having a glass of wine, since anti-coags mean that I'll have to say good bye to that, as well as a cold beer on a hot day.  I may have to take up pot again, just to get through certain social situations, especially those involving country music and or a large number of strangers.  Which is counterproductive anyway, since the reason I gave that up is its tendency to make me distinctly anti-social.

You ever see a girl sit in an empty room by herself for forty-five minutes, staring at a wall?  Yeah. That's why pot has never really been a big hit with me.

What? Fun without alcohol? I'm sorry, you must not have met my friend, Social Anxiety.  No, he won't shake hands, he's too worried about stroking out at any given moment. 

No, wait.  That's me.

I'm being a big flubbin' drama queen I know.  If this is indeed the worst case scenario, the blood clot, I'll be fine.  I'll deal with being on meds again, I'll figure out how to negotiate the work situation, and my implied reliance on alcohol as a social lubricant is mostly hyperbole for the sake of comedic value.  I'll miss wine, but I'll deal with it.  I'm not going to stroke out.  It's going to be fine, and I'll probably sell the computer and get a laptop.  Gotta keep those feet elevated, you know.

If my hamstrings would like to take the fall on this one though, that'd be super.