My so-called journal

Well, I just can't stay out of the ER for long; this afternoon, I was looking for something under my desk, and managed to get a long sliver under my fingernail. (My floors are pine planks, and are over 100 years old now.) The end was visible under my nail—and the whole splinter was visible running the length of the nail bed—but I decided not to pull too hard, lest it break off.

I first went to the Northwell Health clinic a few blocks away on 8th street, but they had a sign posted that they were closing at 5 PM today and Sunday. A holiday weekend? That's when people are most likely to injure themselves!

So headed over to the ER at Beth Israel hospital, waited a bit, and noticed there weren't a lot of people there for a change; seems everyone was gone for the weekend. (It was about 8:30 PM by this time.)

It was a very simple job; the doctor injected my finger with Lidocaine® in a few places, to get me good and numb. He then made sure he had a good hold on the splinter; while I felt some pain, it wasn't bad, and I concentrated on holding still. It only took a few minutes, and he'd yanked a piece of wood at least a half-inch long—or a centimeter—out!

Strange thing, though; I had made a note of when I got my Tdap vaccination for the last crisis a few months ago. For some reason, my Calendar app doesn't want to hold onto these memories, and I couldn't find on my phone when it was done. My desktop does have a note I made of getting a tetanus booster in 2015, though; so maybe I never noted when I got my Tdap—more likely, I noted it on the phone but didn't also mark it on the desktop calendar.

In the ER, they took my word for it when I said I'd gotten it a few months ago—I'm pretty sure it was in the winter—and didn't prescribe any antibiotics, fortunately. (I mentioned I just had a course of antibiotics a month or so ago, for oral surgery.)

Time for bed; it's almost 3 AM, so I hope the melatonin kicks in soon.

Today as I was crossing the Bowery at 4th street, I tripped and fell. No biggie, I thought—except that I couldn't get up easily. A passerby tried to help me and I insisted I was okay.

The pain made me scream, though—I couldn't help it. I got to the other side and called 911.
( Cut for space )


The operator told me to sit down on the curb while I waited. I said I couldn't; my knee was locked.

They think it's dislocated, not broken, but I'm waiting for an X-ray right now. The nurse just brought me a Motrin.

Yesterday I bruised—or fractured; I can't tell—a rib when I fell in front of the famous Astor Place Barber Shop.

I was walking by and a guy sweeping up outside—this was broad daylight—managed to hook my ankle with his broom and bring me down. I fell hard on my left side, and I have no idea if it was deliberate on his part. I sat up, gasping for breath, and when I caught my breath I just said, "Fuck…YOU!" bringing my fists down hard on my thighs.

(In retrospect, what I should have done was snap all their pictures, since I carry my camera almost everywhere I go; I was just too shocked and dazed at the time.)

I also didn't go to the ER; I waited until today and saw my chiropractor, who adjusted me and made me feel better. "You got away easy," he said, assuring me it could have been worse. He also said they don't tape the ribs anymore, so I would have just spent time waiting in the ER for an X-ray so they could do nothing and send me on my way.

Every breath I take still hurts; I took a tryptophan last night so I could sleep, even though I wanted to take a Vicodin®. I slept.

( Cut for the squeamish )


I had to get the dressing changed yesterday on my wrist, so I snapped a couple of pictures; I'm very pleased by how it's healing, but I've cut this for anyone who might be nervous about a little dried blood.

The initials written on the wrist are where my surgeon wrote her initials so she'd do the right wrist!

Charlie Sheen is all over the news this week because he's a celebrity with a drug addiction. Justin Beiber was all over the news for two days, all because he cut his hair. All while Andrew Wilfahrt, Brian Tabada, Rudolph Hizon, Chauncy Mays, David Fahey, Christopher Stark and Kristopher Stark all gave their lives overseas. They received no media attention at all.



(A note-worthy mention taken from padiwack.)

Well, I cracked a molar over the weekend; it was a wisdom tooth, and I made an emergency appointment at my dental clinic. The dentist said it would have to be root-canaled, and I figured that for a wisdom tooth, it might as well be extracted. "It isn't a necessary tooth, is it?" I asked.

"Well, no," said the dentist.

"It won't affect my bite, will it?" I asked.

"No."

"Well, pull it out, then," I said.

"You're not in any pain, so you can sleep on it," she said.

Having just spent a few months of evening appointments, and nearly $2000 on my root canal a few months ago, I wasn't eager to repeat the experience. "No really; that's my final answer," I said. "Pull it out."

( This is gross, so don't feel you have to look--it's my bloody tooth. )

I had Phase I of my root-canal the other evening; as expected, it didn't hurt. I knew it wouldn't, and the dentist said, brandishing a large needle, "Even though the tooth is dead, I'm going to numb the area." I nodded.

I chose not to look while she took out various grinding and reaming tools; the sound was more intense than just being drilled for a regular filling. The anaesthetic began to wear off before she was done, but that was okay; I certainly wouldn't have wanted to be more numb, considering that my upper lip felt like a slab of rubber for a few hours after anyway.

So I have a temporary cap on it and have to go back next Wednesday for more fun. They also scheduled me to continue with my ongoing treatment—like twelve sessions and a few thousand dollars; I had dropped the ball and canceled an appointment last summer, which is why I ended up with this runaway decay in the first place. Live and learn; at least I get to keep my teeth for now.