Dateline: All Hallow's Eve 3:21am
I am awakened by a pain akin to a knife in my Achilles. This is new, this is unexpected.
One week to the date before my scheduled reconstruction, a new tendon shears.
...and baby makes three.
It's now 5:19 November 1st
I am breathless as I write this, and even the dos percos aren't doing much but making me grouchy and demanding.
I want my surgeon, and I want him now.
The nurses are, at least in theory, trying to find me a spot in an already overbooked lineup of weekend yard injuries.
The urge to vomit is overwhelming, but my body is so tense it won't allow the disgust.
My TENS unit (transdermal electric nerve stimulator) is amped up, but not doing any good.
I can't feel the icepacks.
Not an encouraging sign.
It's like waiting for a call from your first real love, and they aren't calling.
The lump in my throat is choking, and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
My phone is my lifeline. Silent and impotent.
The perco bottle is empty.
Shitsandwich.
Please, God, help me.
Please, God, help.
