i_id: (Ten - Mad Skillz)
RIGHT NOW!
i_id: (DAFF-O-DILLS)
Symptoms
Fever(100/97)
Muscle aches, concentrated up the back from calves to nape of neck. 
Throbbing behind ears.
Raw throat.
Deep chest cough with phlegm.
Vomit impulse while coughing.
Disorientation when standing.
Chills despite hot shower and blanketing.
Jaw stiffness.
Light sensitivity.

Differential plz?

ugh

Oct. 4th, 2007 02:44 am
i_id: (Does that make me wicked?)
Today is my sister's birthday. Congrats, Bog, on successfully turning nineteen seven.

She's taking classes at Skagit, where I went for four years. Theater design. She's a self-taught costumer, and not a bad one, despite a tendency to cut corners. I think she'll train up nicely.

You know, for a seven-year-old.

I zipped down after work to share dinner with her and the family, on a bit of a whim. Good food, good company. I feel like I'm beginning to be friends with my parents. Gave Bog some Sandman and a set of sake cups. She'll get a kick out of both.

That was the good part of my day. Everything else sucked. )
i_id: (Starman)
I got my referral! 

For those not in the know, I have a birth defect in my pelvis that wasn't caught until I hit puberty.  My hips do not fit properly into sockets that are too shallow, and over years of growth, the long bones of my legs, the femurs and the shins, have grown twisted.  The most obvious result of this is the way my knees tip inwards, one thirty-five degrees off straight, the other closer to fifty.  If I try to crouch with my feet parallel, my knees meet quickly, uncomfortably.  I can rotate them in and out, but it takes a toll on the bones along the outside of my feet, and  my ankles.  If I'm rotating my knees so they're parallel, I can bend them only a little less than ninety degrees.  

What's less obvious is the internal stuff.  My kneecaps would rather track side to side than properly up and down.  With my legs straight and relaxed, I can move each cap more than an inch to either side of its proper channel, or twist them in place.  They're very weird.

From the hip, I can rotate my legs nearly one-eighty.  I can kick myself in the face with my heels.  I can also collapse with my legs out sideways, looking for all the world as if the spindly knees just snapped.  This makes a great party trick, so long as there's carpet for me to land on.  Of course, one of the things that all of this flexibility means is that a) the muscles aren't doing their job in keeping my legs human-shaped and b) the little pad of cartiledge that makes up the really important part of the knee is all but worn away by 22 years of my abnormal, duck-footed, knee-grindy gait.  An awful lot to trade for being good at Twister.

I was diagnosed for joint pain with femoral-patellor malalignment, a long, misspelled technical term that means that nothing below my waist lines up quite right.  In my sophomore year of high school, I started marching band, which quickly brought into sharp focus how bad my legs had become.  I started physical therapy with a very nice young back specialist named Greg.  He took a lot of interest in my legs, taking pictures and videos of my gait to send to more specialists, but I don't remember ever hearing about any response.  The therapy, mostly exercises with resistance bands and a little electrostimulation thrown in for flavor, did make my spaghetti legs a little stronger, but over six months, we didn't effect any noticable change to the angle of my knees.  I never could march in perfect form. We also admitted defeat on a related problem; a muscle in my lower thigh, just above and inside the knee, was atrophied, and definitely not helping with the malalignment issues.  It was both legs, so it's likely to be nerve damage related to the pelvic deformity, and something I've had since birth.  But between that and insurance issues, I stopped seeing Greg, despite the fact that the pain was still an issue.

After Mom's accident (this brings us up to 2001 and my Junior year, which is also the year I started Running Start), I did some more therapy in a cheaper clinic.  They had me manually twist my kneecaps and tape them into the proper angle as I ran the gamut of my exercises.  I don't think this helped one bit, and the twisting ache never seemed worth it.  Nothing I did there had any sort of noticable result, and as I got busier with college and therapy for my worsening PTSD, I stopped going.

At some point in there, against the bland and over-cautious advice of my family doctor, I did go and consult with an orthopedic surgeon.  He was the only voice in favor of surgery at the time, but what he suggested was, and is still, terrifying.  

The bones have grown rotated by the force of my misshapen pelvis, the femurs almost twisted into a spiral.  Therefore, his answer was to unrotate them, mechanically.  If we'd caught it when I was younger, it would have been done with an external frame and constantly-readjusted transdermal screws, but as I was nearly my adult height, it would have to be something more severe.  Cutting both of the long bones in each leg completely across, at a precisely-chosen angle, then manually twist each of them to the right alignment, and then reconnect the bone with metal places and screws.  And still possibly the external arrangement.  Daunting, to say the least.

But I let things fall by the wayside for seven years.  The surgery was scary, and I was really quite young and so very busy with college and Sea Scouts and travel and working.  I had any number of excuses.  But I couldn't ignore the way even a short jump or a light rap to my knees could daze me with pain, or the way a stroll through the grocery store gave me vicious shin splints that leave blue bruises along the curved bone visible through the skin.  My family doctor prescribed the same thing she's done all along, ibuprofin, but I was already developing the eating disorder that sabotages my health even today, and it never sat well with me that she just recommended higher and higher doses for my pain, instead of recommending any more effective course of treatment.  And it was just getting worse.  By the time I was doing a mile and a half across campus every day, it was a serious problem, with radiating pain in my ankles, knees, and back.  I'd have days when I'd have to go through the Arboretum instead of across the campus, because the splints in my shins wouldn't let me walk on the brick.  Soft dirt was a godsend.  My ankles sprained easily and often, leaving me on crutches or a cane at least once every other quarter.  This defect exerts a major influence on my life.  So, before my parents' insurance drops me at twenty-four, I'm going to exert a major influence on it.  And I'm excited.  

And scared.
i_id: (Default)
omfg can we not do that again?

Test results are in, and REAL ONES THIS TIME.  Not cancer.  Not even a real tumour, but a cyst that had gotten infected, ruptured, and scarred all to hell into an evil little fibroma thingee.  And they took most of that out, so everything's fine, I'll kick whatever bug I picked up in the aftermath of stress and cyst-removal, and life is graaand.

Also Call tonight.

It is time, my friends, for the Breakdance of Rassilon.  *powerslides*
i_id: (Schmoop)
*flail*

So, apparently my phone was in my backpack.  Meaning it was also stolen.  Anyone getting prank calls from me, IT'S NOT ME. 

This also means I've lost everyone's phone number.  Plz give them to me again?  Comments to this post are screened, only I can see 'em.  Privacy assured, all that wub. 

Thank you!
i_id: (Russell)
I get it.  I'm skinny.  I'm pale.  I have huge shadows under my eyes because I never get enough sleep.  I look unhealthy, particularly right now as I am unhealthy, and coughing rather a lot.  The simple exercises we did today didn't wind me too badly, but if this were a longer class, I wouldn't be able to do it.  I'm in poor shape, I get it.

But I don't even know your name, and I doubt you know mine.  It is in no way, shape, or form your responsibility to come up to me after class for this delightful exchange.

You: "I think you should get some help."
Me: "What?"  Walking down the stairs.  Not even breathing hard.
You: "There are support groups for this." 
Me: ".... I'm not anorexic."  I wish this were the first time I've had this conversation.
You: "I went through the same thing, when I was a freshman."
Me: "..."  Leaving.  Now.

So, yeah.  Fuck you, and your eating disorder.

Edit: And I've entirely lost my voice, so I couldn't even bitch you out properly.
i_id: (Default)
I got the job!  Celebrations are happening.  I will be online around midnight my time, possibly tipsy.
i_id: (Default)
Susie-

Spring Break approaches!  In light of this, I shall be available Friday March 23 through Friday March 30 for work.

Unfortunately, March 30 is the last day I will be able to work at the Majestic.  It's been a fun season, and I'll miss it, but the job is no longer worth it.  I've waited for you to give me the position of housekeeping lead, which we talked about several times, but you kept giving it to new hires who either know nothing about housekeeping or made a mess of the entire thing.  Susan remains incompetant.  Anne shows a lot of promise, and I hope you don't burn her out expecting her to do the job of housekeeping lead, which she is not trained for and does not want.  I did her job and mine today, for the record. 

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