Passtime

I’m in an ER holding tank, getting intravenous antibiotics. I have a wound that’s been festering and growing for about four months. While I wouldn’t choose this first as a use of my afternoon, I admit that I’m grateful to God for a novel way to pass the time. I’m usually scrambling to fill it with errands and appointments, as, being on disability, I don’t work, and my “job” of daily Mass and prayer for others’ intentions can only reasonably take so long. (I apologize, God. You know I’m weak and my limitations keep my energy, attention, and physical stability waxing and waning. You also are aware that you made me quite mutable and equally active and contemplative, so a variety of tasks suit me… Ok, there I go, blasphemously blaming the potter for my resistance to the kiln of attaining more stability. Please only forgive and understand me, Lord.).

Now, then, about that wound I allowed to fester for a third of a year: no excuses. I always claim adamantly that I advocate for my own health with the utmost seriousness, am conscientious and hyper-vigilant, that doctoring and self-care are my other “job.” Behold the hole in my story. I dropped the ball on this one big time. Last August, a bug bit me. At least, that’s what I think was the cause of the unexplained red mark and itching-cum-burning on my right ankle. The discomfort increased in intensity and duration, and a small wound started to appear – and grow. (I am not diabetic.). After two weeks of hoping it was just go away, I called a mobile urgent care service for a home visit. The nurses were pleasant and efficient, they diagnosed cellulitis, and they prescribed me some antibiotic ointment. And it did nothing but add a different kind of burning to the original pain. I finished the tube, and nothing. A month later, the wound was now a small hole in my flesh, it smelled foul, and I was becoming quite anxious. Upon a repeat visit, urgent care prescribed oral antibiotics and ordered x-rays for the wound area to make sure that there was no “tunneling” in my leg (the term alone was frightening). This is where pride and neglect took over. After they had left me alone again to my own devices, I decided that I knew better than to accept antibiotics and risk damage to my already long-suffering gastrointestinal track and immune system – so I refused, never got the prescription filled. As for the x-rays, I had been told to expect a phone call about scheduling, but it never came; rather than follow up, I let it go. I was so afraid to go to an ER after so many past experiences of agonizing waits, uncomfortable positions that complicated my neuromuscular problems, and – the greatest fear of all – being admitted to a hotel stay from Hell where immobility and restricted freedoms prevented me from keeping up my daily routine of meals, movements, sleep, and other intimate bodily functions that left me a total mess when I got out and taking days-to-weeks to recover.

So I stayed where I was, and, instead of timely treatment, I chose denial and intertia. Only, my problem was not inert. Absent any treatment, the wound only grew. It got visibly uglier. The pain worsened. I thought I could treat it myself, figuring that, I I could just keep it clean, that it would heal. I like natural and holistic medicine, so I often applied Manuka honey and colloidal silver gel (supposedly two natural antibiotics) under big band aids. They did not help. If hubris could be sued for malpractice, I could have made a million dollars from myself. I did think from time to time of eating crow and reaching out for medical attention, facing my neglect in the eyes of professionals – and then I would turn another blind eye. The reason was the same fear as before, thickened by my already constant preoccupation with managing all my other issues. I didn’t want to extend myself to even more possible stress and suffering.

Like I said, I have no real excuse – only explanations.

But, a few days ago, the pain and ugliness of the wound reached a point that I could no longer ignore. My concern for my leg was beyond denial, and I broke down. My first solution was to visit urgent care, rather than the ER, hoping that it would be easier. The urgent care doctor was so alarmed by the sight of my wound, however (the seriousness with which she fixed my gaze in hers and admonished me sent a message of its own), that my original hope was quickly drowned in reality. I needed big guns – imaging an intravenous antibiotics, and the doctors wanted me to go immediately. However, with night falling and my needing to get home for my dinner/sleep routine, I said that I would not. She had a hard time understanding, and once again urged me to take action. She even told me that the osteomyelitis that she saw could threaten my bone and my ability to keep my leg – if it hadn’t threatened them already. But I promised her: while I could not go then, I would go as soon as possible the next afternoon. As I left the urgent care office, a new kind of fear that made me ill and sad filled me… I did not want fear to grip me, though, so I started to pray. I prayed and prayed and prayed that the damage was not serious and that I could keep my leg and that I would not have to stay in the hospital. I offered up everything I had to God, imploring the Blessed Mother and St. Peregrine to deliver me. I went home, carried on, went to bed, went to Mass this morning… and then ordered an Uber.

Here I am. The fluid is dripping away, and the bag is halfway empty. I feel a vaguely unpleasant taste in my mouth that I would best describe as itchy-metallic. I am bored and cold. And I am so grateful for all of it. It looks like I can go home after the IV is done, too. Thank you God – both for Your forgiveness and Your mercy. I hope that this clears up the bacterial infection in my leg and (my following forthcoming care instructions) allows the wound to finally heal. AndI hope I have learned my lesson for good. I’m looking forward to leaving to run an errand before heading home, and I know how fortunate I am.

Thank you again, God. Thank you.