This was our view from the hotel room that we stayed at when we were at the Mayo Clinic last week. Nice, no? What we did not take into account was that no one would be frolicking on the beach because all of our waking hours were spent at the hospital where I became a human pin cushion.
And we also didn’t notice the mold & mildew in the hotel room, likely due to its advanced age. That wasn’t apparent on the website. And then we also didn’t think about the chiropractic bill for the therapy our daughters would need from sleeping on the fold out couch. I don’t think it had been unfolded since 1972, and resembled a rack of torture more than a bed. And I don’t even want to talk about the stains on the sheets. I may never recover from that.
But imagine the excited squeals of glee when we saw the tray of goodies left on the counter of our room. After snapping a picture of the prices for posterity, we whisked the tray to a place UP HIGH, out of the reach of the offspring. And me.
We’re heading back for more tests and an appointment with the rheumatologist at the Mayo this week. RA has not been eliminated as a culprit for my predicament, so it’s something that my NEW AND IMPROVED orthopedic team want to have taken on or off the table as soon as possible.
Thankfully, Fiddledaddy had the insight to check out another hotel a little closer to the hospital, since we’ll be spending so much time there this month. He found one that suits our needs perfectly. In other words, no mildew, no unsightly mold, and we looked at a room and unfolded the couch to ensure that our children would not end up curled up around our heads should their sleeping arrangements be sub-par.
And get this, it has a giant whirlpool bathtub.
Here’s my conundrum. Because I’m losing the use of my arms and right hand, I haven’t been able to take a bath in my beloved garden tub for a good 2 weeks. And yes, Fiddledaddy installed a bar to give me something to hang on to, but I lack the strength to use it. (Although it is a very handy place to dry my delicates…) That along with my bum knee, and well, I’m certain that should I attempt a good soaking, I would be a shriveled prune before I got over my pride and called for help. So I told Fiddledaddy that he needed to figure out a way for me to get in and out of the amazing whirlpool tub. Something that doesn’t involve a crane. Or a visit from the local fire department.
And as long as I’m sharing too much information, let me just tell you that Fiddledaddy had to take me shopping for a bra that closes in the front. I’m no longer able to wrangle my sports bra, and in fact it became a straight jacket while I was getting dressed at the hotel last week.
After breaking out in a sweat, and suffering from claustrophobia, I finally got up the nerve to call for help from Fiddledaddy. Only to learn that he and the children had left to go in search of ice.
Of course my mind immediately went to the dark place, and I envisioned myself losing my balance because of my bum leg, hitting my head on the edge of the counter, and accidentally strangling myself with my own brassiere.
I pictured the headline.
****DEPRESSED WOMAN KILLS SELF WITH WIRELESS SPORTS BRA.****
I worked a little harder to free myself, and after a good 20 minutes wrestling with my bra, I managed to get everything where it belonged.
When Fiddledaddy and entourage got back to the room, they wondered why I didn’t look as fresh as one would hope I would appear after a nice long shower.
I found a wonderful selection of front-close bras at Target over the weekend. One was a whopping $32.00. I didn’t realize this until checking out. I mused that if I were going to pay $32.00 for a bra, it should at least give me a back rub. Or something.
I told the elderly cashier that I had changed my mind about the $32.00 bra. She miffed, “I’d go braless before I’d pay THAT for a bra.”
Well. That just gave me a visual that I really wished I didn’t have, and frankly, I started laughing. Inappropriately. As I’m wont to do these days.
Round two of testing should not be as horrifying as those administered last week. I will likely post my adventures on Twitter again. Honestly, it helped me stay somewhat sane last week. And I felt like I was in touch with so many of you all, and again THANK YOU FOR THE PRAYERS.
If you followed me on Twitter, you know that I didn’t handle the knee fluid extraction with the grace and dignity that one would expect of a middle-aged, Christian woman.
I’ve had my knee drained before, and I did very well. But this time, there was little fluid, and they needed A LOT OF FLUID FOR TESTING, and that involved really digging around under my knee cap. Oh, and the TWO local anesthetic shots didn’t work at all and they had to go in TWICE with the elephant needle. Fiddledaddy tried to remind me that I had survived child birth. Three times. And all without the benefit of birthing hips. I reminded him that on all birthing occasions, I HAD AN EPIDURAL. AND THEY WORKED!
Fiddledaddy still hasn’t recovered the feeling in his right hand. And as I mentioned on Twitter, I owed the cuss jar $1,256.75. And that was just for the words I said OUT LOUD.
If you follow me on Twitter, and you don’t think I’m following you, please leave me your Twitter name in the comments. Honestly, you guys talked me down from the ledge more than a few times last week.
I’ll be updating. But I likely won’t know anything for a while. I have lots of fancy shmancy tests scheduled for this week and next week at the Mayo Clinic, and then I meet with my orthopedic specialist there the following week.
The finish line is in sight. I’m sure of it.