My first doctor's appointment in Ohio was scheduled for Thursday, August 10. I made the appointment a couple of weeks before leaving Indiana and felt lucky to get in that soon. My son knows her and that seemed to make it easier. On Monday I felt, well, under the weather. On Tuesday I was running a low fever. On Wednesday I woke up to severe pain in my left foot. It looked no different (my feet are ugly, anyway) but the pain was pretty bad. On Thursday I got up and called and canceled my appointment, having decided to go to ER instead. When my son came to pick me up (he had been very insistent, for some reason), I told him of the change in plans. Since my foot looked no different, I figured I had broken it somehow. But at ER they did blood work, an X-ray and a MRI. Somewhere along the way the foot had become infected. Actually, the toe next to the big toe, but it had spread very quickly. Now I am thinking a round of strong anti-biotics, which I dreaded because they mess with my stomach. 

Then the doc came in to explain the diagnosis and treatment. He told us that the infection was in the bone, at least in that toe. My son asked what that meant. "Well, we will have to amputate, at least that toe and probably the middle toe and maybe part of the foot."

At that point, everything in the world stopped moving. The word 'amputate' is a frightening word. My mind filled with images of people I have known who had basically the same issue. Until that moment my mind had blocked those memories, but now the mental gates opened. Three had lost both legs because they had let the infections go to long. Three others had lost part or all of the foot. These memories were heavy on my mind.

We were told that the surgeon would be in early in the morning to decide when the operation would take place. It was around 8 PM and no one had really eaten, so I sent everyone home. I lay there with just my thoughts. Then, around 9:30, the surgeon walked in. Really bad bedside manner. Every time I saw him at the hospital the next few days, he always had a scowl, although I did get him to laugh at the follow-up visit in his office a week after surgery. (given enough time, I can usually make anyone laugh) He examined my foot and matter of factly told me that surgery would be in the morning. With no emotion evident, he explained the possible extent of the surgery. Then he left me so I could get some sleep.

Right. That was really going to happen. I was going to sleep like a baby all night. I never fell asleep. Just stared into the darkness and prayed.

Oddly, though, what lay on my heart were people I knew who had issues as well of this church I know of in Indiana. I prayed for myself, the doctors and the surgical team, but then my heart wandered to my foster daughter, who had just lost her oldest daughter. Kim and Bryan Franks. Others who crowded into my mind. It was as though the Holy Spirit wanted me to remember that I knew many others who had serious issues, as well. It was an interesting night. 

But morning came. It was on that morning that I met Richie, a male nurse who was one of the finest young men I have ever met. I also met Rosa, a young African-American nurse, who seemed harsh and matter of fact. I saw a lot of these two over the next several days. The anesthetist came in with a smile and a sunny outlook that did not match my outlook at all. She explained her part in all of the goings on. I told her that the last time I had been put to sleep I had come awake during the procedure, and I never wanted that again. She laughed and told me that would never happen with her. Then the surgeon's assistant came in and explained that they really didn't know the extent of the surgery until they got there. And then they rolled me down to surgery. They began the meds that would put me to sleep, and then my mind shut off.

As a point of interest, I did wake up during the procedure, which made no one happy, least of all me.

In recovery I asked the nurse who was hovering near, what they had taken. She ran her hand over my head like a mother would a child and told me they had just taken the one toe. Tears came to my eyes. I was going to really be OK.

In the days that followed I was taught how to walk with a walker while putting as little weight as possible on my left foot. I learned that Richie is a great guy. I learned that the aides were tender and caring. And with a little gentle prodding, I found out Rosa's story and I was able to help her and calm her. I really believe that the Lord put Rosa there right at that moment because she needed a pastor. She cried and hugged me when I left for rehab. The aids came in and hugged me. Richie came in and I told him he was not my type, so no hugs. We shook hands. 

And then, rehab, which I warmly refer to now as prison.

For lack of beds, I wound up in the dementia section. Twice at night I was jerked awake by the sound of aides or nurses yelling in anger at each other in the hallway. Forget about using the call light. Maybe meds came on time, maybe not. I went two days without insulin. I never got to go outside just to sit. When I finally did get a shower, a lady sat in a chair and watched as I showered in the open shower. My son was there when housekeeping came in one day.  She was incoherent until she began to sing Christmas carols. My son, who rarely talks ill of anyone, announced that she was a nut case. The reason I wanted to go there was that the therapy was so highly rated. Since I am an early riser, they would get me between 6 and 6:30. I would be back in my room by 7 with nothing to do but listen to patients scream out and beg to go home. And, worse of all, the food was not optimal.

But I progressed quickly and got out in less than a week. I can resume my blog and do my walking in my building. There is practically no pain. All is well.

And you all are still prayed for early every morning.

That is my story, and I am sticking to it.

Blessings.