I don't want people to think I'm trying to gain sympathy. I mean, am I really disabled enough to have to use a walker?
It doesn't matter what people think. What would be easier on you, walker or trekking poles?
Walker it is.
With a wrist brace on each hand and wrist, I unload my bike from Edward the Explorer and load the walker.
See? That doesn't sound like someone who is disabled. Unloading your bike?
Stop it. You have shared and can still share why you can cycle and how it is that you can load and unload a bike into the back of an Explorer. And it doesn't matter what people think. You know. Your loved ones know, and that's what really matters.
My wrist braces support and help give me strength. They are light blue in color, a terry-type cloth with three Velcro sections to secure them around each wrist and palm. I have quite a few pairs. One for sleep, one for being in public, one for grungy work. I remove the metal inserts and gel cushions and hand wash them every so often. I buy a new pair if needed for my wardrobe when I attend a wedding or some similar social event, which is very seldom.
I drive to Dr. Neurology. I don't park in a handicap space. I don't need it today. I open Edward's rear hatch decorated with stickers, mostly about hiking and biking. I unload my walker. I put my water bottle in the pocket carrier of the hiker's hip pack attached to my walker. I place my canvas blue-with-black trim tote bag that carries my other hip pack which serves as my wallet and carrier of essentials, and my planner and Sudoku books into the wire basket which hangs under the walker seat.
I walker-roll into the waiting room. It's packed. Not unusual. One person is waiting at the check-in window. I roll up behind them, turn my walker around, click on the handlebar brakes, and sit down. It's a comfy walker. It's name is The Phoenix, or Phoenix for short.
Phoenix and I wait my turn.
When I get to the window, the receptionist warmly greets me. But she has a puzzled look on her face as she scans her computer screen.
"Do you have an appointment today?" she asks.
"Yes. At 1:40. It is Tuesday. Isn't it?" My mind retrieves the date and time, thinking back to when I got my epidural six weeks ago. "Yes, I'm sure it's today."
The receptionist chuckles as she tries to remember what day it is and confirms that indeed it is Tuesday.
"I don't see you on the schedule," she informs me.
"I got an email confirmation. I think it was a confirmation?" As I pull out my phone to access my emails, my memory quickly sees the email from the neurologist's office. Well, two emails which appear to be duplicates; they arrived in my mail box at the same time. Neither of which I had opened. My mind's eye sees the subject line of each email. Shit. I think those were just invoice notifications.
I open my email box on my iPhone. Yes, the duplicate emails are an invoice notification, not a confirmation.
My eyes swell with tears. Okay, Carol. Don't freak. If he can't see you today, you'll just have to cope. Up your prednisone higher than usual.
"It's an invoice, not a confirmation. I don't have an appointment card because I always just use my planner. Crystal knows. I see him every six weeks."
The receptionist picks up on my distress. "Okay. Don't worry. Let me go talk to Crystal."
Surely they'll get me in. They know I need these shots.
But if they can't, you'll just have to figure it out.
"Okay. We'll work you in."
"Thank you. Thank you. Is it about a two hour wait?"
"Probably. He's going on vacation at the end of the week and will be gone for two weeks. So the schedule is packed full."
No biggie for me. There is most always a wait. It's the biggest complaint about this doctor. On the other hand, patients still come. He's really good with those needles. I've had to wait two hours before when I wasn't a work-in. I don't mind the wait. The relief to come is worth waiting for.
We chat a moment as she gets me on the schedule. I pay my bill.
When I roll around, I see a line has formed. About five people. They all move to one side and let me roll by.
~*~
Around 4:00 I'm in the examining room. Now another thirty-minute wait. I pull out my Sudoku and continue to work a puzzle.
Doc enters the room around 4:30. He greets me with his regular cheer. I could be cynical and think, Sure he's always glad to see me. I pay my bills. But I really don't think that's why he's warm and welcoming. Besides, the last two years he has given me two complimentary nerve conduction studies.
We chat a moment and he asks, "How's the Sudoku going?" My last appointment when he entered and I was working a Sudoku puzzle, we had a discussion about it. And the number nine. I showed him how to do nine-overs, also known as casting out nines, an old school method of checking addition and multiplication which is really cool.
"I don't seem to be getting any better. But I still enjoy it. You know, I can always work Sudoku. I mean when I have brain-fog-brain-mud, I can work Sudoku. I think maybe because it's so linear? Does that make sense?"
"It does." He responds as he is looking over my shoulder at my puzzle book.
"How about 120 milligrams today," he states somewhere between a question and a statement.
"I'd rather go with 80. Last time I got 80, I think. When I got 120 some months back, I had too many side effects."
"Hmm. Let's do 120." He responds.
I don't argue the case. I could probably use the 120. I'm not doing too well compared to my usual six-week interval.
120 it is.
"Okay. I'll see how I do with the side effects."
I'm back to my Explorer by 5:00.
Later I wonder if Doc can assess how much injectable steroid I need just by looking at me.
I received this round of neck shots on 6/26/18. By 6/28 in the morning, I'd lost 3 pounds. At least 2-1/2 of that from nerve inflammation reduction. It happens regularly. Should no longer amaze me, but it does.
~*~
Funny how, when I have brain-mud, I can work Sudoku. I can also work at my 2-hour/week job at an art studio, transferring payments in increments usually of $12.50 and $25.00 onto index-sized green cards that are arranged alphabetically by the artist's last name.
Brain-mud doables. Rote and linear.
I often work Sudoku as I fall asleep at night.
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