FAINT HEARTED, not for the

Trying to pull on a compression stocking is a little like pole vaulting into pants that are three sizes too small. Throw in some intense pain from a surgery and it is Hell on Earth.

I’ve been desperate to sleep in as long as possible for a week since I had surgery on a troublesome vein that’s bothered me for a while. Because when I wake up, I have to struggle into an unyielding toe-to-waist rubber demon that makes me walk stiff-legged like Frankenstein and looks, in shorts, like a fake leg.

I put the surgery off because veins make me queasy. But damage from being on my feet for years and also sitting writing for hours on end — never mind two pregnancies and, of course (a little) extra weight – adds up to disaster where circulation is concerned.

My leg was so bad that my blood was probably only flowing in one direction because it was desperate to find a way out.

The doctor said the procedure was so safe and simple that I could drive myself there and home. But I was a basket case. My blood pressure spiked as we reviewed the operation that would be performed WHILE I WAS AWAKE. For me, that’s the equivalent of being buried alive. Sedative, please!

There was local anesthetic, yes. But how could it possibly be enough? One look at me when my husband brought me in and the medical staff ordered another pill. But as I found, when you are that jacked, 100 pills won’t make a difference. It’s like trying to take down a dinosaur with a blow dart.

After the procedure, two nurses in a full sweat worked to pull on my stocking. Don’t worry, they said, with a glance at each other. It will loosen up. Well, I have news for them. It hasn’t. I’m like a sausage about to spring from the casing. When the Velcro unexpectedly let go last night, the stocking launched down my leg and was at my knee before I could grab it and wrestle it back up. Thankfully, it was before and not during my daughter’s graduation.

This has been torture, and I have another week in this prison before I’m free. I can’t help regretting the decision that has caused this chaos, but if it works, of course, it will have been worth it.  Until then, it’s just one Xanax, I mean one step, at a time.

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About Michele

I am a freelance writer with three kids, two cats, and a dog with thyroid disease. I'm bouncing back from a divorce and making the most of every day. There is so much beauty around me. I am grateful!
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