We are all capable or more than we realize. I fought for my own survival, and so can you. Everyone has a piece of the puzzle. Blogging makes mine ours. Joy is possible even in dire circumstances. You're welcome to travel down the the road with me a piece.

Monday, November 29, 2010

I couldn't walk

I was scared by the time I got to see a Doctor for the first time in my sober adult life. Not about my blood pressure, or my (now back to normal) vision, but my feet. My earliest memories are of my feet hurting. Now there were bricks where my feet had been, I could not bend my toes or rotate my ankles. I barley walked in baby steps. Unable to step off a curb unaided I scanned for poles and posts. Uneven pavement caused me to see stars several times daily.
I had seen my share of discrimination: taunted, tormented, denied, hounded and hunted; "marginalized" they call it. This word sucks. Even so, I thought health care would be like a television show; sexy , brilliant professionals that care. I was in for a rough ride.
Right away I was told some bad news and offered a bag of pills and a wheel chair. I didn't want to risk getting high, or getting in the wheelchair (something I had always joked about "looking forward to"). I left with a non-narcotic pain reliever and a cane. I felt like a I had missed a bullet getting out of there without Vicondin or Oxy.
That bad news was: the Doctor didn't know what was wrong with me. The good news was there would be some tests! Lots of 'em.

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