Falling Hard

So remember how on Sunday I stumbled and it set of a rush of cathartic tears?

Well, last night I really did FALL. Our kitchen was gutted on Tuesday (exciting! terrifying! expensive!) and I was showing Tim around the empty space when he got home from work. I didn't realize that the flooring was uneven, and before I knew it, I rolled my ankle, pitched forward, and ended up sprawled on the sub floor.  I yelled at poor Tim when he tried to help me up, as if he had somehow been responsible. Ugh.

It didn't feel like I'd landed on the baby-- only my shoulders, hip and knee. I was heading out to a speaking engagement, but before I left I was able to get out the mini doppler machine a friend gave me and hear the baby's heartbeat, loud and strong. Thank God!

At the speaking engagement, I had a wonderful time connecting with amazing women in my community and arrived home at close to 10 pm.

Around 1 a.m. I was in the middle of a a bad dream, a la the movie Misery, with Kathy Bates taking an axe handle and bludgeoning my foot. My first thought was, "Yay! If I'm dreaming, that means I'm sleeping!" My second thought was, "I need to pee." Standing up to head to the bathroom, I crumpled to the ground. My foot was really messed up. The rest of the night was spent in a recliner, with my foot on ice (thank you, Tim!)

Today I'm holed up in our bedroom. My foot is throbbing. Tim is staying home from work to help me, and he has devised a line of chairs for me to hang onto while I hop to the bathroom. We are talking about trying to get me to the doctor later today, and I know that's wise, but I am in too much pain to contemplate getting from here to there at this point.

Is it weird that my foot only hurt a little bit when I rolled it,  but it started throbbing 6 hours later?

Right now I'm trying the I.C.E approach: ice, compression, elevation, and making sure I feel plenty of  movement from the baby.

I'll update you as I find out more, but I wanted to ask for prayers. THANK YOU, FRIENDS!

UPDATE: 

Went to urgent care and found out it was a "bad sprain" made worse by weakened ligaments because of pregnancy. Settled in for the long haul of healing...but guess what? The very next day the pain was cut in half. And today, Saturday, I feel 95% better! Thank you for your prayers and concern! So grateful and relieved!

Why I Stopped Sleeping with My Husband

Got to love an attention-grabbing headline, huh?

This post isn't about amorous activities or the lack thereof. It's about my shoulders. Again. Turns out I have a torn labrum on one side from a fall on black ice last winter. I still have the frozen shoulder on the other side which I told you about earlier, but it's hurting less now. I guess you would refer to it as "partially thawed."

After months of physical therapy but worsening pain in my left shoulder, I got an MRI and found out about the tear.  It's good to finally know what's going on, but I don't plan on making any decisions about surgery or other next steps for a few weeks.

As most people with shoulder injuries know, nighttime is the worst. I haven't had a full night's sleep since last November. Parents of babies and toddlers are probably saying, "Yeah, well I haven't either!" but at least there's the possibility that those precious nocturnal bed-hogs will care for you in your old age. My shoulder just underscores the fact that I'm hurtling toward mine.

So, in addition to my PT and an orthopedist, I sought the counsel of someone in the know about aches and pains-- my friend's charming 70 year old dad. He told me the best way to get a good night's sleep with a shoulder injury is to sleep in a recliner. We chit chatted about this over the 4th of July weekend, and I tucked his advice away, certain it couldn't apply to me. A recliner? As a visual aid,  his two green recliners sat right there in his den, but I tried to ignore them.

I wasn't about to adapt my long-held standards. See, I have always adhered to a strict NO RECLINER rule in our house.  Yeah, yeah Brooke Shields has made La-Z-Boy more attractive. but I've always been a little stuck in my ways. It's just one of those things. I still call Costco "Price Club," I don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, and I'd rather sit on an uncomfortable but attractive chair than in a recliner.

Or so I thought. After almost two additional months of wakeful nights, I caved. Last week I put out a plea on Facebook, and within a few hours, Tim was dragging Big Blue into our house. Big Blue is a supple leather recliner once owned by my friend's grandpa. That first night I settled into Big Blue with my eye shades, a good book, and my reading glasses (!!!!), and I haven't looked back. Sleep still comes and goes, but I'm a lot more comfortable.

My worldview has shifted, and now I'm a RECLINER LOVER! I can't believe we never had one growing up! How have I lasted 44 years without one, subjecting my family to chair after shabby chic chair that I'd rescued from the side of the road based solely on looks and never on comfort? For me, it was all about the decor. Well, décor no more!

After we return Big Blue, I wonder if I will take this new-found love to the next level. Maybe a massage chair? With cupholders, perhaps? They do make slip covers for these things, right?

In the meantime, I will be asking my friend Heather if I can borrow the wedge bed pillow her husband used following his rotator cuff surgery.

Because much as I have embraced the recliner life,  I don't want Tim to get too used to having the bed all to himself.

Put Through the Wringer

So in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and my recent milestone birthday, I had a mammogram today.

I thought it would be a great idea to get this done in my local doctor’s office rather than the massive radiology building downtown. Of course I planned this well before I discovered this office has become the apparent world epicenter of the swine flu.

Half the patients in the waiting area were wearing face masks and there was much sneezing and hacking. I tried to fill out the paperwork using only my elbows so my hand wouldn’t touch the communal pen, but that proved difficult.




The magazine rack? Empty. A sign said: “Due to the large number of cases of swine flu (H1N1) we will not be providing magazines at the present time.” Eww. Not the kind of thing someone like me needs to read. After years of inner turmoil and debate I had almost convinced myself that it was okay to read magazines in doctors’ offices, at least in the supposed “well waiting” areas. No more. One step forward, two steps back.

Anyway, when it was time for my mammogram, as I stood there in all my (8 years post-breastfeeding, marble in a tube-sock) glory, the technician asked, with a straight face, “Do you have implants?” Now I know she was just following policy, akin to 7-11’s “We Card Anyone Under 100 years Old,” but STILL. If what the technician saw today had ever been touched by a plastic surgeon’s knife, there’d be a lawsuit out there with my name as plaintiff.

The actual smooshing? Worse than I remembered—by the time she took the pics my boobs were somewhere between the thickness of a toaster strudel and a frozen waffle-- but I’m glad I got it done.

I hope you’ll remember to make an appointment, too.

Give Her an Inch, She'll Drag Me a Mile

Dear Shadow,

When you dragged me across the pool parking lot just now in front of all the tennis moms you must have gotten a real rush. What did it feel like for you when my shin, knee, hip, shoulder, forearm, palm and finally, face, skidded across the dirty pavement and ended up in that puddle?

I sure wish I had known to expect the sudden trip so I could have unwrapped your leash from around my wrist, instead of flying through the air like a hooked carp.

Obviously my busy day of bringing home the bacon (ok, 50 bucks) wasn’t enough for you. The doggie bones from my quick grocery trip didn’t satisfy, either. When you brought me your ball, I played fetch with you. And then, instead of sitting on my rear reading magazines while the kids had tennis lessons, I decided to bring you along for a nice long walk.

And now, as we sit here in the car, me fuming and composing this blog in my head and bleeding on the steering wheel, all you can do is pant and give me that stupid, happy-dog look.

I guess it’s all my fault. I mean, you did see another dog to chase after, and it’s not like you get to do that every day. Oh yeah.

And when I miss my dear friend’s going away party in an hour as I pick gravel out of my shoulder, it’s not like she’s moving to Belgium or anything. Oh yeah.

And as the sheets stick to my wounds tonight as I try to sleep, and I say goodbye to wearing any flirty, shoulder-baring fashions for the next 100 years, I’ll just say thanks again, bitch.

Not Love,

Anna

And Who Made You Queen?

Dear Snooty Lady at the Consignment Shop,

Thanks for rejecting my clothes because they were not pressed and on hangars. I took them off hangars last week and put them in a Target bag in my minivan with my other bags of stuff to be dropped here and there.

Sure, Shadow probably sat on them because they were in “her” seat, but even Molly noticed your condescending tone. “Mom, I didn’t know grown-ups talked to other grown-ups that way.” Nice.

Well, since I don’t “press” clothes—life’s too short—I know that the folks at Goodwill will enjoy my Ralph Lauren Sundress, Ann Taylor halter dress, and Talbot’s Jackets. You be sure to enjoy YOUR wrinkle-free day.

XO,

Anna See