06 Mar / Big fat legs
The other day I looked down during the morning to see why my legs ached, and saw that they’d ballooned up.
I prodded at them a bit, as you do, and discovered that if I pressed my fingertips into my ankles the fingertip marks lasted long after the actual digits themselves were removed.
All very amusing but I had work to do.
Conscious that they looked as thought they’d endured a five hour flight, I stretched my feet in various directions every time the ache settled, and then forgot about them the rest of the time.
It was too hot to walk home, so I jumped on the bus. It was too hot to bus home, but I was clean out of options.
At home I prodded my ankles a bit more, took some paracetomol for the nagging ache, and propped my feet up. Literally.
It’s hard to type on a computer while your feet are propped two feet higher on the back of the couch, but then we all have our crosses to bear.
The next morning I awoke to find that nothing had changed. This was slightly worrying as when edema occurs after long plane rides, the cure is most definitely to fall asleep, and then wake up.
Potentially I’ve got that a bit wrong, I thought to myself. Potentially it’s the falling asleep in tropical locations that’s the key there, and nothing at all to do with the sleep.
I soldiered on for a couple of hours before I got my entire freak-on at work, and not in the good way. I crumbled and phoned up my doctor to make an appointment.
I still have it, because the first available wasn’t until next week.
Still a bit freaked, I called up the Healthline to see if it was possible that I was being a hypochondriac, and attending a doctors appointment next week was perfectly acceptable in my unknown condition.
Hypochondrianism is a tendency I’ve noticed in myself. One that isn’t helped by the few occasions when I let things slide – lights flashing in my eyes for example – and they turn out to be symptoms necessitating all sorts of drama and operations and recovery periods.
The Healthline lady helpfully suggested I should be checked out within 24 hours, in case it wasn’t okay. I blame her for the two hour wait and the bruises inside my elbow and the substantial “emergency GP” rates charged for the visit which told me I was not suffering from anything but swollen legs and ankles, and perhaps I should put my feet up.
I’ve survived another day at work, and my legs have gradually reduced to a point where they’re no longer shiny and tight, and although I can still dimple my ankles I really have to pick my angles now.
This getting old is a real bunch of fun. Who knows what’s heading my way next?