You're Invited to:
A
{PITY PARTY}
Everyone is welcome!
Celebration in honor of:
Broken Finger
Bruised Ankle
Burned Thumb
Where?
Katie's Place
When?
Right now!
RSVP Requested
To ensure plenty of
Whine and Cheese for All
Showing posts with label injuries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label injuries. Show all posts
Calamities anyone?
It's been awhile since we had a good calamity post around these parts so, I thought; Why not? Who can't use a little calamity fun every now and again? Of course I would have enjoyed, as I am sure you dear reader would have too, adding pictures to this post but alas (or alack?) my card reader has gone missing. So, for today we shall have to make do. We shall have to use our imaginations. I think I had one of those imagination things once....how about you? But wait, let's not hop down that rabbit just yet, I have calamities to discuss.
As to the whereabouts of afore mentioned card reader, I am bewildered. I am positive I stuffed it into the camera bag so that I would be assured of finding it the next time I needed it. It was not here ...it was not there. I could not find it anywhere. I could not find it Sam I am. IT can't be found of this I'm sure. (Sorry, too much Dr. Seuss) Even the children tout, "It was Notme!" Seriously, if I get my hands on Notme there will be words. Lot's of words. I am pretty sure the culprit is the youngest child and that the card reader is living out a second life as a weapon of some kind. In the dirt no less.
The most recent of tragedies is the strange and as yet, undetermined loss of the use of one of my fingers. (Could that have been a more confounded sentence?) The middle finger of my left hand to be exact. Yesterday, upon waking I found it lying limply on the pillow next to my head. It stared up at me, all swollen and slightly cocked to one side. I tried to move the finger and it refused. It continued to refuse to work for the rest of the day. When my darling husband came home and I cried over the loss of my finger he told me "It looks like its out of the socket. Pull on it." (Yes, he actually told me to pull my own finger.) I looked down at that pathetic little-ish finger and decided against pulling. What if it was broken? What if I ruined my own finger? I decided to baby it instead. Today, my finger is still swollen and slightly cocked to one side. Today, my finger still hurts like the dickens and is a funny purpley color. I don't think its dislocated. Stupid finger.
My finger can take comfort commiserating with some of my other recently maimed body parts. Why, just the other night as I was putting the house to bed, I was assaulted by not one but three calamities. See if you can keep up......In the kitchen, the light switch is on the far wall as in; you have to walk clear through the kitchen to turn on the lights. This kitchen was designed by a man. In my kitchen darkness+Katie=injury. And so it went. I walked through the kitchen and turned off the lights, turned to walk out, tripped over a cooler, fell over a huge box of food, scrapped my shin, sprained my ankle and cussed a little in the process.
I limped my way to the wood stove to shut the dampers. I grabbed hold of the cast iron damper with my bare hand, at which time I heard my flesh sizzle. The thumb of my right had was actually stuck to the cast iron and I had to yank it free. I jumped back on my freshly injured ankle and cussed some more. I considered rushing to the kitchen for ice but decided the bathroom was a safer alternative.
After dousing my crispified thumb with cold water I proceeded with my bedtime routine; tooth brushing. This activity may not be as harmless as it may seem. I have just had a crown place over a broken tooth. I have had many, many, far too many visits to the dentist over this new tooth. At present the crown is too short, meaning part of my raw, ravaged, sawed off tooth is still hanging out. Standing at the sink, with tears in my eyes I gingerly began to brush. My leg is throbbing. My thumb is throbbing. I brush past the short crown and actually get the bristles of my tooth brush caught in the gap between crown and gum. At this point I let out a cacophony of cuss words that would make a sailor blush. I turn, get tangled in a towel, loose my balance and grabbing a hold of the shower curtain for support, I rip said curtain from its moorings. I cuss some more. And stumble off to bed.
It was like a Charlie Chaplin movie with a Three Stooges flair.
So, today I am trying to take it easy. I have my poor finger to consider. And darn near the whole rest of my body for that matter.
As to the whereabouts of afore mentioned card reader, I am bewildered. I am positive I stuffed it into the camera bag so that I would be assured of finding it the next time I needed it. It was not here ...it was not there. I could not find it anywhere. I could not find it Sam I am. IT can't be found of this I'm sure. (Sorry, too much Dr. Seuss) Even the children tout, "It was Notme!" Seriously, if I get my hands on Notme there will be words. Lot's of words. I am pretty sure the culprit is the youngest child and that the card reader is living out a second life as a weapon of some kind. In the dirt no less.
The most recent of tragedies is the strange and as yet, undetermined loss of the use of one of my fingers. (Could that have been a more confounded sentence?) The middle finger of my left hand to be exact. Yesterday, upon waking I found it lying limply on the pillow next to my head. It stared up at me, all swollen and slightly cocked to one side. I tried to move the finger and it refused. It continued to refuse to work for the rest of the day. When my darling husband came home and I cried over the loss of my finger he told me "It looks like its out of the socket. Pull on it." (Yes, he actually told me to pull my own finger.) I looked down at that pathetic little-ish finger and decided against pulling. What if it was broken? What if I ruined my own finger? I decided to baby it instead. Today, my finger is still swollen and slightly cocked to one side. Today, my finger still hurts like the dickens and is a funny purpley color. I don't think its dislocated. Stupid finger.
My finger can take comfort commiserating with some of my other recently maimed body parts. Why, just the other night as I was putting the house to bed, I was assaulted by not one but three calamities. See if you can keep up......In the kitchen, the light switch is on the far wall as in; you have to walk clear through the kitchen to turn on the lights. This kitchen was designed by a man. In my kitchen darkness+Katie=injury. And so it went. I walked through the kitchen and turned off the lights, turned to walk out, tripped over a cooler, fell over a huge box of food, scrapped my shin, sprained my ankle and cussed a little in the process.
I limped my way to the wood stove to shut the dampers. I grabbed hold of the cast iron damper with my bare hand, at which time I heard my flesh sizzle. The thumb of my right had was actually stuck to the cast iron and I had to yank it free. I jumped back on my freshly injured ankle and cussed some more. I considered rushing to the kitchen for ice but decided the bathroom was a safer alternative.
After dousing my crispified thumb with cold water I proceeded with my bedtime routine; tooth brushing. This activity may not be as harmless as it may seem. I have just had a crown place over a broken tooth. I have had many, many, far too many visits to the dentist over this new tooth. At present the crown is too short, meaning part of my raw, ravaged, sawed off tooth is still hanging out. Standing at the sink, with tears in my eyes I gingerly began to brush. My leg is throbbing. My thumb is throbbing. I brush past the short crown and actually get the bristles of my tooth brush caught in the gap between crown and gum. At this point I let out a cacophony of cuss words that would make a sailor blush. I turn, get tangled in a towel, loose my balance and grabbing a hold of the shower curtain for support, I rip said curtain from its moorings. I cuss some more. And stumble off to bed.
It was like a Charlie Chaplin movie with a Three Stooges flair.
So, today I am trying to take it easy. I have my poor finger to consider. And darn near the whole rest of my body for that matter.
Typing left handedly
In the immortal words of Shaggy
"Like yowza, Scoob!"
Yowza was the most mild of terms, used by me, as I broke boards (and quite possibly my hand) at Tae Kwon Do class last week. Hence the one handed typing. UGH! The agony. The bruising, ego included. The big ugly wrist brace is quite a hindrance to well, say any task requiring the use my right hand and arm really. I look pretty funny twisting my whole body around all wonky-like just so I can use a fork. Yeah, I know what was I thinking? I was thinking I could totally break that board and I did break it, on the first try too. However, I was not thinking about my Fibromyalgia or that fact that I am in my thirties and out of shape...nuff said.
So, while I sit around waiting for my hand to heal, know that I am dreaming of the good ole blogging days when I actually could (even though I didn't) blog and the day when I can whip out a great blog and not have it take me an hour to type it out one handed.
"Like yowza, Scoob!"
Yowza was the most mild of terms, used by me, as I broke boards (and quite possibly my hand) at Tae Kwon Do class last week. Hence the one handed typing. UGH! The agony. The bruising, ego included. The big ugly wrist brace is quite a hindrance to well, say any task requiring the use my right hand and arm really. I look pretty funny twisting my whole body around all wonky-like just so I can use a fork. Yeah, I know what was I thinking? I was thinking I could totally break that board and I did break it, on the first try too. However, I was not thinking about my Fibromyalgia or that fact that I am in my thirties and out of shape...nuff said.
So, while I sit around waiting for my hand to heal, know that I am dreaming of the good ole blogging days when I actually could (even though I didn't) blog and the day when I can whip out a great blog and not have it take me an hour to type it out one handed.
Calamity
My latest calamity involves a giant spider, baking soda and vinegar, and mystery shoes.
Last night whilst helping Fidget make her bed I was bitten by this monster of a spider. It felt as though I had been stabbed with a needle in the hand. This biting sent me into full on panic attack mode. My heart started palpitating, my mouth went dry, I started to sweat, my vision blurred, basically I suffered death and death like symptoms.
The mother in me decided that now would not be the best time to give in to the death spider so I dug around in the blankets, to see if I could find the culprit. This massive spider is what I found.
My hand started to swell and the pain started traveling up my arm. Then my hand went numb. At this point I called Miriam. No answer. Called hubby. No freaking answer. Called doctor's office, they would have to call me back.
Ack! I was going to die and no one would know! I had the sense to plaster my hand with baking soda and just to be extra disgusting, vinegar. My rationale was that these things would draw out the poison now taking the fast track toward my brain and heart.
So I managed to get Miriam to answer her phone and whined about my dying. She sympathized. Then the doc called back.
According to the nurse on call, I was only freaking out. I would in fact not die, but just to make sure I was to come to the office to have myhead hand checked out. This involved the locating non-phone answering husband and shoes for 4 kids and myself.
Enter mystery shoes.
These babies were lurking in the bottom of my closet. I had assumpted that they belonged to my shoe loving husband and had given him a hard time for owning two pairs of white court shoes, that he never wore. In fact these puppies are not his size and he had assumpted they belonged to moi. Being to large for even my size 9 tootsies, they must belong to the Headstrong one. But no, these would be too small for a growing boy of 12. No one in our house has any idea where these shoes came from. This is the story of my life.
Back to the dying:
Thank the heavens above for the mystery shoes, without which I would have gone to the doctors office unshod, as I could not find two shoes that matched. (I have two little girls who play dress up with my shoes and NEVER put them back)
I managed to make contact with hubby, filled him in on the death and death like symptoms and told him to beat feet homeward.
Now a trip to the doctor's office for us, involves a 60 mile trek, one way. We just happened to be out of fuel. In both vehicles. And we are broker than broke. We used our last pennies at the pump to get just enough fuel to skate our way to town.
After waiting for what felt like hours, I was told by the smartest doctor on the planet (who had to Google 'spider identification') to say that I will in fact live and if I was lucky, my hand would not rot and fall off. You know what saved my life?
The baking soda and vinegar.
Last night whilst helping Fidget make her bed I was bitten by this monster of a spider. It felt as though I had been stabbed with a needle in the hand. This biting sent me into full on panic attack mode. My heart started palpitating, my mouth went dry, I started to sweat, my vision blurred, basically I suffered death and death like symptoms.
The mother in me decided that now would not be the best time to give in to the death spider so I dug around in the blankets, to see if I could find the culprit. This massive spider is what I found.
My hand started to swell and the pain started traveling up my arm. Then my hand went numb. At this point I called Miriam. No answer. Called hubby. No freaking answer. Called doctor's office, they would have to call me back.
Ack! I was going to die and no one would know! I had the sense to plaster my hand with baking soda and just to be extra disgusting, vinegar. My rationale was that these things would draw out the poison now taking the fast track toward my brain and heart.
So I managed to get Miriam to answer her phone and whined about my dying. She sympathized. Then the doc called back.
According to the nurse on call, I was only freaking out. I would in fact not die, but just to make sure I was to come to the office to have my
Enter mystery shoes.
These babies were lurking in the bottom of my closet. I had assumpted that they belonged to my shoe loving husband and had given him a hard time for owning two pairs of white court shoes, that he never wore. In fact these puppies are not his size and he had assumpted they belonged to moi. Being to large for even my size 9 tootsies, they must belong to the Headstrong one. But no, these would be too small for a growing boy of 12. No one in our house has any idea where these shoes came from. This is the story of my life.
Back to the dying:
Thank the heavens above for the mystery shoes, without which I would have gone to the doctors office unshod, as I could not find two shoes that matched. (I have two little girls who play dress up with my shoes and NEVER put them back)
I managed to make contact with hubby, filled him in on the death and death like symptoms and told him to beat feet homeward.
Now a trip to the doctor's office for us, involves a 60 mile trek, one way. We just happened to be out of fuel. In both vehicles. And we are broker than broke. We used our last pennies at the pump to get just enough fuel to skate our way to town.
After waiting for what felt like hours, I was told by the smartest doctor on the planet (who had to Google 'spider identification') to say that I will in fact live and if I was lucky, my hand would not rot and fall off. You know what saved my life?
The baking soda and vinegar.
Fun in the sun
Yesterday we decided to take a break and hit the park. I was however, a little apprehensive to venture anywhere near a set of monkey bars after our last park adventure.
(read: Headlong boy has had a complete recovery from his "Oh, it's broken. Maybe. Lets immobilize his arm till we know for sure." to the immediate discovery by our Family doc that his arm was dislocated at the elbow so he popped it right back into place, ordeal.)
Regardless of past woe's we made the best of a bright and sunny, albeit chilly, fall day.
Happy day.
This morning I am fraught with emotion. I am ready to sue the brand new 200 million dollar medical facility in our area.
Yesterday afternoon, while on a play date with the Farm Suite girls, my youngest fell from the monkey bars and landed on his arm. After Miri and I frantically gathered and divided all 8 children. I rushed off to my doctor's after hours clinic. As it was 4:30 in the pm all of the Dr.'s had gone home for the evening. Hence the after hours clinic, which as it happens does not open for business till 6pm.
At this point I am flustered beyond cope ability. The nurse assured me the Dr. would take Head-Long asap. OR as soon as she finished her dinner.
After crying for an hour and screaming at the slightest bump in the road, H.L. lost his will to cry (or the adrenaline kicked in). For the rest of our ordeal he just sat vacantly staring and screaming only when his arm was moved.
After waiting in the Dr.'s office for an hour and a half H.L. was seen, for all of 2 seconds. Then we were told that the arm needed to be X-rayed and it just so happened that their machine was down.
We were sent to our local, brand new, Urgent Care. URGENT! So, not the case here. More like Lackadaisical Care. Where I had to beg and beg to get some Tylenol for my poor baby. What gives, people? I was asked over and over again, "What? YOU didn't give him some before you left your house??" Umm, hello? Do they hand out the brain damage pills at med school??
After waiting ever so patiently for 5 hours at the, AHEM!!! Urgent Care. The X-ray was inconclusive.
Head-Long's arm was put in a splint and sling (of which, was young adult sized, as the brand new 200 million dollar hospital didn't have infant sized anything) and we spent what was left of the night in a fitful sleep.
My baby is such a danger mite that this rushing off to the doctor is nothing new at our house. But frustration is hard to deal with, for both Head-Long and myself.
We will see what our regular doctor says today.
Oh, happy days.
Yesterday afternoon, while on a play date with the Farm Suite girls, my youngest fell from the monkey bars and landed on his arm. After Miri and I frantically gathered and divided all 8 children. I rushed off to my doctor's after hours clinic. As it was 4:30 in the pm all of the Dr.'s had gone home for the evening. Hence the after hours clinic, which as it happens does not open for business till 6pm.
At this point I am flustered beyond cope ability. The nurse assured me the Dr. would take Head-Long asap. OR as soon as she finished her dinner.
After crying for an hour and screaming at the slightest bump in the road, H.L. lost his will to cry (or the adrenaline kicked in). For the rest of our ordeal he just sat vacantly staring and screaming only when his arm was moved.
After waiting in the Dr.'s office for an hour and a half H.L. was seen, for all of 2 seconds. Then we were told that the arm needed to be X-rayed and it just so happened that their machine was down.
We were sent to our local, brand new, Urgent Care. URGENT! So, not the case here. More like Lackadaisical Care. Where I had to beg and beg to get some Tylenol for my poor baby. What gives, people? I was asked over and over again, "What? YOU didn't give him some before you left your house??" Umm, hello? Do they hand out the brain damage pills at med school??
After waiting ever so patiently for 5 hours at the, AHEM!!! Urgent Care. The X-ray was inconclusive.
Head-Long's arm was put in a splint and sling (of which, was young adult sized, as the brand new 200 million dollar hospital didn't have infant sized anything) and we spent what was left of the night in a fitful sleep.
My baby is such a danger mite that this rushing off to the doctor is nothing new at our house. But frustration is hard to deal with, for both Head-Long and myself.
We will see what our regular doctor says today.
Oh, happy days.
5k Project
Whoosh!
OK so, here goes. Mrs. G started a challenge. Katie accepted said challenge. Katie is a chicken.
Mrs. G is hardcore. Katie is a chicken.
Mrs. G wants updates and pictures. Yup, you guessed it I. Am. A. Big. FAT. Chicken. (mmmm, chicken...with mashed potatoes and.....crap! Must snap out of it! Focus!)
Mrs. G has a desire to run a 5k Marathon. Katie has no such desire but does not want to be old, fat and out of shape, any more.
Mrs. G is on vacation. Katie is not. Katie is not having any fun. WHATSOEVER!
***Deep breath****
I am such a chicken that just writing this post is giving me an anxiety attack. (he..he..whoooo....I knew that Lamaze breathing would come in handy some day)
So for all the world to see here is my stats:
OK so, here goes. Mrs. G started a challenge. Katie accepted said challenge. Katie is a chicken.
Mrs. G is hardcore. Katie is a chicken.
Mrs. G wants updates and pictures. Yup, you guessed it I. Am. A. Big. FAT. Chicken. (mmmm, chicken...with mashed potatoes and.....crap! Must snap out of it! Focus!)
Mrs. G has a desire to run a 5k Marathon. Katie has no such desire but does not want to be old, fat and out of shape, any more.
Mrs. G is on vacation. Katie is not. Katie is not having any fun. WHATSOEVER!
***Deep breath****
I am such a chicken that just writing this post is giving me an anxiety attack. (he..he..whoooo....I knew that Lamaze breathing would come in handy some day)
So for all the world to see here is my stats:
- Height: 5'8"
- Frame: Med.
- Weight: way too freaking much
- OK real weight: 202lbs
- Supposed healthy weight for my height and build: 125-135 Sha! RIGHT! like maybe when I was 12.
Just a little back-story:
I got a little fed up with the way my wardrobe was fitting around about Thanksgiving time. I decided that I would try to reduce my weight but just not eating so much. It seemed that I was stressed out and pacifying myself with food. I would eat till I was stuffed! I then weighed about 240 (238 to be exact). So my big plan was to just cut everything I ate in half and only eat half of it. This worked wonders. I had a sense of accomplishment at my new found willpower and in the process lost almost forty pounds come January. However, since January I have stayed right close to the 200 mark, give or take a bloat or two. Obviously my calories in/calories burned ratio is off.
I am pear shaped and carry my weight on my butt and thighs. Although I have recently developed a new chin (or two) that has been driving me mad! I used to get compliments on my long slender neck. ' A neck like a ballerina' they would say. Not any more. This is the last straw. (read: Now, one might have thought that the last straw would have been when I got my butt stuck in a chair (w/arms) at church once. This was not the case. Just cause for more chocolate consumption. Not good the the butt reduction.)
Once, a long time ago, I took matters into my own hands and tried the Body for Life program. This was one hardcore program but I did it and achieved great results. That was however, before I blew out my knee and had two more kids. And got old.
***I will dig around and see if I can find the before and afters from the BFL program, while I contemplate whether or not I can take pictures of myself now.***
MY GOALS:
- To set a healthy example for my kids.
- To have more energy.
- To be able to buy clothes off the rack that I know will fit.
- To build up the strength in my bum knee so that I don't have another bad fall.
- To have a healthy heart.
- To achieve physical fitness and be healthy so that I will (hopefully) live a long and disease free life.
I will try to do updates weekly but can't make any guarantee's 'cuz I am flighty like that.
Alright already!
Ahhhhh! Can't you just hear the Angels a singin'?!
(Please note that this is only one quarter of my gianormous kitchen. I worked til 9:30 last night. I am beat.) I was a scrubbing away like a maniac yesterday. Hair tied back. Work clothes on. (no make up, frumpy clothes, wild hair=one scary momma) When I stared to feel heat building on my back. "What the....." I was workin' so dang hard that my back fat was working up some steam. I am lucky that I didn't catch ma'seph on fire, I tell ya! I can just picture the headline's:
"Woman burns down house, back fat blamed. More to come." BOOOWAAAHHHhahahahLOL!
Glory shot of the fridge. No shmutz nor too much fridge-a' phnalia. (I can't believe I still have the other 3 quarters of the kitchen to scrub!) I went to bed last night sure I had suffered from mild brain damage. Accepting this kitchen challenge must have come as a shock to some. Thus the brain damage. Maybe it is all of the pollen in the air. Maybe it was just the fact that my kitchen has "deliberately" open shelving. I just HAD to do it. It may take me a few days to actually finish, though, bear with me.Hope this helps to make your day!
I have to go put the ice pack, hot pack, whatever pack, on my various broken body parts, while applying 3 different kinds of lotion, with the hopes of reviving the skin on my hands and soaking my feet in a peppermint foot bath, while downing a bottle of Advil, sucking down at least 3 cups of coffee, since I didn't sleep a wink, because I was in too much unearthly pain, rubbing on the Ben Gay (well 'cuz I'm old), wrapping my arm with an ace bandage, massaging my sore hair follicles, whining pathetically.........
ALL, with the hopes of returning to work at some point today.
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