In 45 minutes I trudge over to the foot / ankle specialist to get my MRSA looked at -- and I'm imagining the worst. I bet they decide to "cut" something -- on my foot -- involving needles and bruising and soreness. I've worked myself into a lather over it, of course. I'm hoping for the best - but deep down I'm expecting the very worst.
This just hasn't been my day. Insurance dickering and now doctoring. And I had to take a sick day from school to do it all.
Meanwhile we're driving around in the van Hubby purchased from the widow across the street who sold it to us after her hubby died this summer. The van has 250,000 miles on it -- a quarter of a million miles. My goodness. That's some mileage! Hubby has had all the joints refurbished and a tune up done -- s0 the van, though way too huge for me to drive safely -- runs pretty good so far. I just don't want it to be the only vehicle we have to get around in. Hopefully the garage's insurance will offer up a nice little settlement and we can begin the horror of looking for another Lincoln in as good a shape as ours was.
7 p.m. Oh yes! The podiatrist took one look and got out the needles (4 of 'em), the scalpel, and the bandages. And two hours later he was done and I was hobbled.
Now I need a bath. And my hair washed. So I figured I'd put the foot in a baggie, seal it up, and just hop in the tub. Except at my age and girth I no longer hop anywhere. I got my right (the good one) foot in the tub and then realized the only way I could sit down was to put the left foot in, too -- or fall straight backwards into the tile. I stood there one-legged awhile, contemplating my predicament and then got out and pulled the plug. I'm not willing to unwrap the darned foot until tomorrow -- when I've been ordered to soak it and put "drops" on it that cost me an arm and a leg at the pharmacy (but not a foot, of course).