Status Update
Posted: Mon May 04, 2020 12:51 pm
Billy Mays wasn't here for some of my reports, so I'll drop a recap and update.
Oh, through extreme effort, I found my story, which is here: The Ballad of Paul Robinson
(Play opening from Al Stewart's Time Passages) "It was late in September, there wasn't any snow..." Actually, let's go back. Sometime in 2018 I got a problem on the heel of my left foot. A hole about the size of a quarter. It was oozing a gel-like substance, and instead of regular pinkish-white skin, it was jet-black and stringy. It didn't hurt, but I could actually scrape the skin loose with my fingernail, proving conclusively the skin was dead. The technical term for this is "debriding a wound." Okay, I have diabetes: I'm thinking: gangrene. So I can use my wheelchair to go to the Wound Clinic at Washington Adventist Hospial in Takoma Park, Maryland.
They only take people on appointment, so I should go to the emergency room. I do and after a few issues I'm admitted. I am treated, then released to a nursing home. But I still have a hole in my left foot. I have a boot to wear and bandages to change. I am released back to my home. They will even provide a twice a week person to come by. I make a mistake, I'm not taking care of it, I get infected.
I can't move very well, I get re-admitted, I get everything cleared up, (except now I can't move my torso) but in the process, I get a new wound on my right foot, not sure if it was when I was at the hospital or the nursing home. Eventually, I'm to be discharged as medicare stops paying. I talk my sister into taking me. Was a mistake as my family is not up to the challenges of treating an invalid. Or someone with a wound on both feet. The person from the visiting nurses suggests they need to get me back in the hospital. My sister takes a picture of the wound on my right foot, e-mails it to my doctor. His response was they need to call 9-1-1 and get my ass in the hospital. The nurse suggests we tell the paramedics to take me to Virginia Hospital Center as they have one of the best wound clinics in the area. They do and I'm admitted. They have to handle me the way they now treat all suspected covid-19 patients, in hazmat suits. I'm reported to have no infection, they arrange to help me with the paperwork to qualify me for medicaid. I'm transfered to a nursing home, HCR Manorcare, also in Arlington. Eventually my leg has to be cut off; the story is told in the poem above.
To recap: I'm now essentially a quadriplegic from the armpits down, with dupychens' syndrome in my left hand and missing my right leg from above the knee.
Oh, through extreme effort, I found my story, which is here: The Ballad of Paul Robinson
(Play opening from Al Stewart's Time Passages) "It was late in September, there wasn't any snow..." Actually, let's go back. Sometime in 2018 I got a problem on the heel of my left foot. A hole about the size of a quarter. It was oozing a gel-like substance, and instead of regular pinkish-white skin, it was jet-black and stringy. It didn't hurt, but I could actually scrape the skin loose with my fingernail, proving conclusively the skin was dead. The technical term for this is "debriding a wound." Okay, I have diabetes: I'm thinking: gangrene. So I can use my wheelchair to go to the Wound Clinic at Washington Adventist Hospial in Takoma Park, Maryland.
They only take people on appointment, so I should go to the emergency room. I do and after a few issues I'm admitted. I am treated, then released to a nursing home. But I still have a hole in my left foot. I have a boot to wear and bandages to change. I am released back to my home. They will even provide a twice a week person to come by. I make a mistake, I'm not taking care of it, I get infected.
I can't move very well, I get re-admitted, I get everything cleared up, (except now I can't move my torso) but in the process, I get a new wound on my right foot, not sure if it was when I was at the hospital or the nursing home. Eventually, I'm to be discharged as medicare stops paying. I talk my sister into taking me. Was a mistake as my family is not up to the challenges of treating an invalid. Or someone with a wound on both feet. The person from the visiting nurses suggests they need to get me back in the hospital. My sister takes a picture of the wound on my right foot, e-mails it to my doctor. His response was they need to call 9-1-1 and get my ass in the hospital. The nurse suggests we tell the paramedics to take me to Virginia Hospital Center as they have one of the best wound clinics in the area. They do and I'm admitted. They have to handle me the way they now treat all suspected covid-19 patients, in hazmat suits. I'm reported to have no infection, they arrange to help me with the paperwork to qualify me for medicaid. I'm transfered to a nursing home, HCR Manorcare, also in Arlington. Eventually my leg has to be cut off; the story is told in the poem above.
To recap: I'm now essentially a quadriplegic from the armpits down, with dupychens' syndrome in my left hand and missing my right leg from above the knee.