Last Sunday, I told the story about how I broke my ankle by slipping on black ice. My adventures in Kaiser Permanente's health care system, with my fears about being able to afford this, followed. Finally, my 17-year-old son kicked me off the internet, setting off new fears that his newfound power was going to corrupt him.
Since then I have been back to my elementary school job, and this morning my son drove me to a different Kaiser facility for a walking cast. Follow me beyond the fold for the details....
I had a sinking feeling that I would be the reluctant center of attention once I got back to school. And I was. The gossip lines seem to have been malfunctioning, for most of my co-workers had no idea I had even fallen, much less broken anything. In general, the nice people were nice, and the mean people were mean.
The kids were something else! Incredibly aghast at watching me hobble through their doorways, into their classrooms. The looks on their faces will be enough to make me super-careful in the future. There were the usual suck-up power struggles over who would have the honor of placing the chair to elevate my foot. Everyone learned what a "hairline fracture" is.
A glimmer of hope for the future was the 3rd grade class. Their teacher and I had to explain (ver-ry carefully) that the "coolness" and functions of the cast I would eventually get, depended upon what my insurance company would pay for. They were quite properly outraged about that. If I wanted a hot-pink, sequined, jet-propelled cast, why, I should be able to have one!
The difficulty over the past two days has been with my crutches. I had never had to use them before right now, and naturally was clueless about how they are supposed to work. My total crutch training time at the original appointment was about two minutes - not exaggerating - I told the RN how tall I am, and she adjusted "John" and "Paul" for that height. "Don't put them under your armpits, and keep your arms bent," she cautioned me. And that was it. It was apparent to my crutch-savvy coworkers that something was wrong. Everyone had a different idea about what the problem was, though. I decided to leave them alone, since not one of them was an actual medically trained human. My arms, shoulders, and torso (6-pack area, if I had a 6-pack) had to work very, very, very hard, as I puffed and blowed up and down the hallways, which all seemed much longer than usual. The only thing to sustain me was the possibility that this workout would leave me looking just as buff and toned as Linda Hamilton in "Terminator 2" - wow, bet I'll be able to get a date then!
(I would add a T2 photo of Linda here, if I knew how, but my son has gone back to school and is unavailable to walk me through it.)
Another problem was absence of appetite. I don't know if it's the acetaminophen, or the generic Vicodin, or delayed shock - but I can't force myself to eat anything. Linda Hamilton-style workouts require a more substantial diet than one cup of yogurt, half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a lot of milk. However since this also means I am unable to self-medicate by overeating, I'm not necessarily displeased. But still.
The management of my "community" was very defensive about how there had been plenty of de-icer on the sidewalks and streets. "There's nothing we can do except make an incident report." I'm not surprised - and I'm not going to "fight" it, as I need to focus on healing my ankle.
This morning, my son and I drove my daughter to school, and then headed for the Rock Creek Kaiser Permanente facility. He had never driven that far before, and with good reason, I found. The boy just doesn't like red lights. And I discovered he's equally frightening behind a wheelchair. At one point, he delightedly commented, "Hey, there's a part back here where I could stand up and ride, if we had to go downhill!" He also took my crutches away, despite my protests ("Let the OT do it!"), and lengthened them by 2 inches.
This visit cost $40, bringing my share of the total bill up to $115. That may not be a lot to you, but to me, that's 2-3 weeks of groceries. Not a prohibitive cost for me, but neither is it - searching for the words - easily absorbed.
After the OT snipped off my splint, Alex (son) was impressed by the range of colors in my leg bruises, yellow to green to blue to purple. The fracture was doing exactly what it was supposed to do, so I got a walking boot cast. The OT tinkered further with "John" and "Paul," and gave me real lessons on how to use them. I must put as much weight as I can bear on my foot/ankle. In two weeks, I should be using just one crutch (a gleam in my son's eye at the prospect of taking it away from me); in four weeks, when I must go back, they want me to be crutch free. And best of all, I can take it off to bathe!
The only further thing I had to endure was the drive back to Boulder, taken at various rates of speed so that my son would never have to be impeded by a red light.
So far, so good. Different puzzlements for me today:
Why didn't I get proper lessons on how to use my crutches, the instant they were handed over to me? I thought I had made it very clear that I had no experience with them.
Just wondering how any of my friends would do with a $115 medical bill (with the cost of the boot coming soon, I'm sure). I know people who would be put out by this, and I know people who would be devastated by the expense.
There was a story on the local news about "osteoporosis-related fractures in women over 50 years of age" - my a-ha moment of this whole misadventure. My mom has "shrunk" almost 4 inches. That will be a fruitful New Year's Resolution for me, and if I can figure out a way to blend in affordability for poor women, so much the better.
Many, many grateful thanks for all the good wishes and sage advice I've received in this mess. I appreciate it!