Thursday is the kind of day that reminds me why I love my job.
I do love it, though it might be hard to guess from all the times I blow off steam on the blog. But Thursday I got to play tourist.
It wasn't a promising start to the day. My first run took me right into the snow. I'd hoped to avoid it because it was only snowing on the southern part of the metro, and forecast to be gone fairly early in the day as it moved further south and east. Some days I never get that far across the metro. But not today. I hit snow about a mile from my first drop. Slick stuff.
I leaned my seat back for whatever kind of nap I could grab before the next run. It had been a rough night that way, but luckily I'm the kind of person who can benefit from cat naps. Dispatch woke me with a query of whether I wanted to chase east for a run into Wisconsin? They've gotten coy these days in how much the tell you before they send you a run. But at least this dispatcher knows my walking limitations and is pretty smart about working with them.
Sure! Out of the snow - maybe. He didn't say how far into Wisconsin or which way, but it would likely beat driving through more snow here. I'm willing to take that kind of gamble.
It turned out to be another of those electrical parts runs. They've been good to me lately. And this one turned out to be going to Niellsville. Never heard of it either? Well, head just a bit further south out of the metro to pick up Hwy. 10 as it crosses into Wisconsin, and just keep on driving 'till you get there.
I'd taken 10 into Prescott many times. Never further. It's beautiful country out there, even with snow covering everything. The first bit holds lots of hills sharply cut by streams, heavily forested, windy-twisty driving but nothing that need to slow you below the posted 55 MPH.
Except the towns, of course. There is no general rule, so Wisconsin small towns can be posted anywhere from 45 to 25 MPH as you drive through. You better find the sign. But in addition to the scenery along Hwy. 10, the first several towns had some character. No cookie cutter construction here. Nothing suburban, no '30s or '40s - or '80s! - development clusters, no single builder with their 5 patterns and variations. Lots of small starts with add-ons sprinkled through others obviously built all at once. The huge house wasn't obviously the funeral parlor or the insurance office because nobody really lived there any more, but more likely held an actual family. Unlike Prescott, first along the border, there were no obvious signs of urban sprawl.
So despite myself, my dislike of all things winter, especially snow, I found myself enjoying what I was doing again, loving the drive, playing tourist. I was especially hit by the vista as I came up over one hill and saw an opening to a huge valley spread out before me, hills so distant they were blue, reminiscent of views way out west. This was a major surprise to me, as I'd been through other parts of Wisconsin, and remembered it as a state with lots of rolling farmland and shortened views. Not as flat as southern Minnesota, but pretty much similar: fields and corn and cows, mixed in with the higher level of trees found in northern Minnesota, just slightly different species.
The sharply cut hills leveled out about twenty miles in, giving way to widely rolling farmland. There were no more vistas until just before my drop. A motel sign by a veterans memorial advertised its great views, so I tried to look in its direction to see what could be seen. Sure enough, the road was on another major elevation, with wide valleys spread out in three directions from there, better viewed on my way back, actually. Another sign hinted that this hill was likely a huge glacial moraine left behind.
Eagles and pheasants were the only major wildlife visible, but the drive with those kind of sightings is always worth while. If I wanted to view cows, llamas and horses, there were plenty of those as well, including some horses so tender they were out wearing blankets for warmth.
The drive did wind up taking the whole work day, though it needn't have. I did find myself trying to doze behind the wheel on the way back, and pulled over for a half hour snooze. I keep a kitchen stove timer in the car for just such a purpose. It serves me well.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Eggshell Pink
It was sunset last night, a lovely subtle blend of horizontal layers of pinks, mauves, blues, whites, creams, lavenders. The only phrase that hit my mind as I looked at it was "eggshell pink." There are no pink eggshells, of course. So there is no counterpart in reality. I don't know just why that seemed to fit. But Steve called right then, and he knew exactly what I meant.
Maybe that's why I love him.
Maybe that's why I love him.
Redux Redux
So, it wasn't the morphine.
Randy (whom my sister-in-law refers to as "the sainted...") is back after a family medical crisis of her own. It was her replacement who diagnosed the morphine allergy. Nothing that treated this rash as an allergy had any effect. Not stopping the presumed cause. Not anti-itch cremes. Not Claritin.
Randy took her own look Thursday and rediagnosed it as a yeast infection. Apparently it's common enough after taking high-dose antibiotics for extended periods. All the good bugs get killed off along with the nasty ones, and the ever-opportunistic yeastie beasties come out to play. And boy were they playing up a storm! Whole big patches of skin were solid red instead of covered with distinct bumps.
New meds were called in, and I was told to hit the pharmacy on my way home to pick them up. No problem. Meanwhile the only relief on the home front was Lanacane. Lots of it. Tubes and tubes (do we own stock yet?) of it. I asked Paul to pick some up since he had the day off and was to be out and about running errands. The remains of an old tube of Nystatin were dug out and used. Clothes were changed.
We'd just ordered him some fleece, loose winter garments for comfort and warmth. They had arrived that morning, and he liked them. At least, until the itching took over again, and the soft fleece started stabbing him everywhere! So folks on the home front were digging through the wardrobe looking for things he could stand to have next to his skin. There were mixed results.
When I stopped at the pharmacy, they had no clue what I was after. Nobody had called anything in. I called Randy. She'd been promised results, but somebody at the doctor's office dropped a ball. Now they were closed. I had to settle for picking up a tube of an OTC remedy for yeast invasions for the night.
It was going to be another one with little sleep for two of us.
When I got home, I discovered that Paul, usually reliable, had forgotten to pick up his grandfather more Lanacane. We were now out, and it was the only thing that numbed him enough to allow some sleep. I sent him out to the local WalMart for 2 tubes. He came home with three - and we're again out after this morning.
Yesterday morning the doctor's office called, saying they'd called his pharmacy to order both a pill and a powder to treat his yeast infection. The pill, 2x daily, treats it from within. You can't take it along with the antibiotic that caused the yeast opportunity in the first place, but he was through taking that now. The powder treats it externally. Used as a powder, it helps dry the skin. Otherwise it can be mixed with the Lanacane for a double-attacking skin treatment. There's still so much pain that we're using it that way for now.
The new hospital bed arrived and got set up last night. We're hopeful that getting away from his lift chair - finally! - will offer him new positions and do some good for the skin. At 1 AM I had to persuade him not to give it up and head for the living room. I told him it would give me an hour's worth of work for all the things that needed doing for the transfer. It's only a small exaggeration. I really wasn't in the mood for much but a little dose of creme, adjusting blankets, and heading back to bed. And bless his heart, avoiding causing inconvenience to others is a powerful motivator for my dad.
This morning I had to give him a very careful washing of his back, in order to remove the built up layers of cremes. It hurt despite my care, but we both understood the need. Without it, the new medicine had no chance of reaching actual skin and doing any good. Then yet another new soft knit shirt on it - more pain - and he's been managing to sleep most of the morning. It gave me a chance to stuff envelopes and address X-mas cards. Not enough time to make the Saturday pick-up, however.
Time for me to shower and go shopping: Lanacane, groceries, X-mas stuff...
As for the morphine, well, we can re-order more next year. So far his breathing is good enough that he doesn't need it.
I do still wonder about those rats and spiders though.
Randy (whom my sister-in-law refers to as "the sainted...") is back after a family medical crisis of her own. It was her replacement who diagnosed the morphine allergy. Nothing that treated this rash as an allergy had any effect. Not stopping the presumed cause. Not anti-itch cremes. Not Claritin.
Randy took her own look Thursday and rediagnosed it as a yeast infection. Apparently it's common enough after taking high-dose antibiotics for extended periods. All the good bugs get killed off along with the nasty ones, and the ever-opportunistic yeastie beasties come out to play. And boy were they playing up a storm! Whole big patches of skin were solid red instead of covered with distinct bumps.
New meds were called in, and I was told to hit the pharmacy on my way home to pick them up. No problem. Meanwhile the only relief on the home front was Lanacane. Lots of it. Tubes and tubes (do we own stock yet?) of it. I asked Paul to pick some up since he had the day off and was to be out and about running errands. The remains of an old tube of Nystatin were dug out and used. Clothes were changed.
We'd just ordered him some fleece, loose winter garments for comfort and warmth. They had arrived that morning, and he liked them. At least, until the itching took over again, and the soft fleece started stabbing him everywhere! So folks on the home front were digging through the wardrobe looking for things he could stand to have next to his skin. There were mixed results.
When I stopped at the pharmacy, they had no clue what I was after. Nobody had called anything in. I called Randy. She'd been promised results, but somebody at the doctor's office dropped a ball. Now they were closed. I had to settle for picking up a tube of an OTC remedy for yeast invasions for the night.
It was going to be another one with little sleep for two of us.
When I got home, I discovered that Paul, usually reliable, had forgotten to pick up his grandfather more Lanacane. We were now out, and it was the only thing that numbed him enough to allow some sleep. I sent him out to the local WalMart for 2 tubes. He came home with three - and we're again out after this morning.
Yesterday morning the doctor's office called, saying they'd called his pharmacy to order both a pill and a powder to treat his yeast infection. The pill, 2x daily, treats it from within. You can't take it along with the antibiotic that caused the yeast opportunity in the first place, but he was through taking that now. The powder treats it externally. Used as a powder, it helps dry the skin. Otherwise it can be mixed with the Lanacane for a double-attacking skin treatment. There's still so much pain that we're using it that way for now.
The new hospital bed arrived and got set up last night. We're hopeful that getting away from his lift chair - finally! - will offer him new positions and do some good for the skin. At 1 AM I had to persuade him not to give it up and head for the living room. I told him it would give me an hour's worth of work for all the things that needed doing for the transfer. It's only a small exaggeration. I really wasn't in the mood for much but a little dose of creme, adjusting blankets, and heading back to bed. And bless his heart, avoiding causing inconvenience to others is a powerful motivator for my dad.
This morning I had to give him a very careful washing of his back, in order to remove the built up layers of cremes. It hurt despite my care, but we both understood the need. Without it, the new medicine had no chance of reaching actual skin and doing any good. Then yet another new soft knit shirt on it - more pain - and he's been managing to sleep most of the morning. It gave me a chance to stuff envelopes and address X-mas cards. Not enough time to make the Saturday pick-up, however.
Time for me to shower and go shopping: Lanacane, groceries, X-mas stuff...
As for the morphine, well, we can re-order more next year. So far his breathing is good enough that he doesn't need it.
I do still wonder about those rats and spiders though.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Morphine Redux.
Itchy. Scratchy. No, that's not a pair of cartoon characters - well yes it is, but not here - it's my dad as he wakes up this morning.
I offer some of the soothing hospital lotion that got sent home with him. Ah ha, there's a little rash where he's pointing. He jumps when I touch him to smooth the lotion on the spot. It's highly tender.
I tend to the morning routine, and get interrupted by another complaint about being itchy. OK, this time I go dig up the Sarna lotion, an old standby for itching that he's used since after he had shingles.
I fix him breakfast, set up his meds, take a shower, get dressed and am almost ready to go out the door...
He's itchy again. This time I dig out the anti-itch creme in the tube. Both tubes. Not a lot left, but there's some there. I clue in Rich, and leave for work.
Early afternoon I get a phone call. The nurse has been going over all his meds with Rich. Changes need to be made. Most are as simple as when and in what combination something is given. One is called in to the doctor for approval to double the dosage. And the morphine has been poured down the sink.
Huh?
Remember that bracelet in the hospital that stated No Known Allergies? Well, now that would be wrong. He's allergic to morphine. It manifests as an extremely itchy rash. So, down the drain.
I have mental images of very happy rats in the local sewer system, though I know of no actual beasties therein. Or perhaps there are spiders down there that survive winters underground, feasting on other bugs that inhabit sewers for food and warmth. What kind of weird webs would a spider spin under the influence of morphine?
He'd gotten his last dose this morning, and luckily it was only a half dose. We were already playing around with reduced dosages because the anticipated constipation proved not to be a myth. He got no morphine the previous evening, to enable peristalsis to return. It was an extremely successful gambit. I know because around 4 AM I thought I needed to make a potty stop. It was in use. For quite a while. Another of those mornings where I can't quite get back to sleep. Two hours sleep-deprived.
But since withholding worked, I returned him to a half-dose this morning. Oops! Who knew?
Since coming home tonight, he's been dosed with Lanacane at least 8 times. One spot gets treated, and another makes its presence known. The rash is spreading even now. Every five minutes he calls out for some place to get treated. He's gotten his sleeping pill, plus the old one that also is used as an anti-allergy med. We added a second ibuprofin to help the pain, since it sometimes helps me with an itch too. Blankets have been removed, and added. A pillow has been placed between him and the chair.
I'm trying to finish this and get to bed. Maybe he can fall asleep before the next something drives him nuts.
I'm very well aware of the baby monitor in my room.
Addendum: It took until after midnight for him to get to sleep. Thus for me too. When the alarm went off at 6, he'd been so quiet that I had to check to see that he was still breathing. He was. The rash has been treated again - it's still spreading - and Paul has orders, since he's home today, to go buy more Lanacane.
I offer some of the soothing hospital lotion that got sent home with him. Ah ha, there's a little rash where he's pointing. He jumps when I touch him to smooth the lotion on the spot. It's highly tender.
I tend to the morning routine, and get interrupted by another complaint about being itchy. OK, this time I go dig up the Sarna lotion, an old standby for itching that he's used since after he had shingles.
I fix him breakfast, set up his meds, take a shower, get dressed and am almost ready to go out the door...
He's itchy again. This time I dig out the anti-itch creme in the tube. Both tubes. Not a lot left, but there's some there. I clue in Rich, and leave for work.
Early afternoon I get a phone call. The nurse has been going over all his meds with Rich. Changes need to be made. Most are as simple as when and in what combination something is given. One is called in to the doctor for approval to double the dosage. And the morphine has been poured down the sink.
Huh?
Remember that bracelet in the hospital that stated No Known Allergies? Well, now that would be wrong. He's allergic to morphine. It manifests as an extremely itchy rash. So, down the drain.
I have mental images of very happy rats in the local sewer system, though I know of no actual beasties therein. Or perhaps there are spiders down there that survive winters underground, feasting on other bugs that inhabit sewers for food and warmth. What kind of weird webs would a spider spin under the influence of morphine?
He'd gotten his last dose this morning, and luckily it was only a half dose. We were already playing around with reduced dosages because the anticipated constipation proved not to be a myth. He got no morphine the previous evening, to enable peristalsis to return. It was an extremely successful gambit. I know because around 4 AM I thought I needed to make a potty stop. It was in use. For quite a while. Another of those mornings where I can't quite get back to sleep. Two hours sleep-deprived.
But since withholding worked, I returned him to a half-dose this morning. Oops! Who knew?
Since coming home tonight, he's been dosed with Lanacane at least 8 times. One spot gets treated, and another makes its presence known. The rash is spreading even now. Every five minutes he calls out for some place to get treated. He's gotten his sleeping pill, plus the old one that also is used as an anti-allergy med. We added a second ibuprofin to help the pain, since it sometimes helps me with an itch too. Blankets have been removed, and added. A pillow has been placed between him and the chair.
I'm trying to finish this and get to bed. Maybe he can fall asleep before the next something drives him nuts.
I'm very well aware of the baby monitor in my room.
Addendum: It took until after midnight for him to get to sleep. Thus for me too. When the alarm went off at 6, he'd been so quiet that I had to check to see that he was still breathing. He was. The rash has been treated again - it's still spreading - and Paul has orders, since he's home today, to go buy more Lanacane.
Poke Poke
When life is full of stress, you take your entertainment when and where you can get it. Sometimes it's only available in taking a couple of pokes in your blog at someone who irritates you.
I was delivering freight from an electrical supply place to an electrical contractor working in Mound. The location on the order was Mound Pump House. Never heard of it.
I've been to Mound quite a few times. There's a company there which uses our services regularly. So I know, for example, that it's a lovely lakeside community due west of Minneapolis way out on the shores of Lake Minnetonka. I know several roads in and out, where to buy a Subway sandwich, the location of the SA with its usable bathrooms, the location of a bank, a printing company, a clinic and the city offices. I knew where my street was located without looking it up on a map, and approximately where the address numbers should wind up. I just didn't know exactly what I was looking for. I had a nebulous idea, with a name like that, that it might be a bar in a remodel of an old fire station. I didn't count on it.
I was on the street in the general area, hunting for street numbers to guide me to the exact location. Depending on the community, these can be either easy or impossible to find. With the snow narrowing street lanes, there was no way to park to check out each building, so the initial plan was a slow drive-by, getting clues to narrow the search. I call it "address hunting", and anybody on the phone with me at the time knows that's when I need to hang up and concentrate on the job. I can talk with you while I'm doing my "big map" driving, the part where I mentally picture my route to the area, and my autopilot takes over getting me there. All I need to concentrate on then is safety. There's brain enough left for a casual conversation, or listening to the radio, or enjoying the weather, or....
I'd already noticed the street name had changed, as the street had just swung a block north. So I needed to follow it back to before the curve and find out if my drop would be there or I needed to backtrack and pick up my street from another angle. That's when it happened.
Rinnnggg!
I pulled the cell from my pocket and glanced at the caller ID to see if this call could be ignored. These days many can't. This one was from headquarters. I better answer.
"This is Heather."
"Hi, this is _____ from the office. How are you doing?"
"I'm address hunting." Take the hint, make this quick, I'm busy here.
"I'm on the phone with _____ and they want to know how soon you'll be in Mound."
Really? Already? I'm not late yet. In fact there's still a half hour on the run. "Mound is where I am. I'm looking for the drop now."
"Oh, if you're having trouble finding it, you can call _____. He can guide you in."
Well, I wasn't having trouble. Not until you called and interrupted my process. I'm now in a moving holding pattern, taking left turn lanes to make u-turns to go up and down this street since there's no safe or convenient stopping place, staying out of other drivers' way, keeping in the location. As for the number, it's standard procedure for jobsite drops to get a first name and cell number to facilitate the hand-off. I've already looked at the order and know it's there.
"I'm not having trouble. I just can't find it and talk to you on the phone at the same time."
And even if I were, I can't call the guy, because - Hello! - you're on my phone. Duh! Now I'm trying to be polite, but I'm getting irritated, and I suspect by this time a little "tone" is creeping through. Maybe she can type and talk on the phone at the same time - it is her job, after all - but certain things do not combine well. And there seems to be a failure of imagination on her part.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I can concentrate on talking to you or on finding the address, but not both."
"Well, what do I tell the customer?"
Hmmm, that's an open ended question if there ever was one. I have several ideas, but... Professionalism wins.
"Tell him I'm at the corner of _____ and _____ and will be there in under two minutes." Now please go away and let me do the job you're so anxious for me to finish!
During this exchange I have determined that my address is where I am but a block back, so it's time for the different angle approach. Odd, because there's nothing visible back there. But I check it out: a one block dead-end street. No exits. Just piles of snow. But at the end, as I turn around, I spy the truck I'm looking for by its company logo. I just have to go back where I was originally and come back behind the building on the other street. No biggie. Now I know.
Still within my two minutes, I pull up next to the truck. It's parked right beside a little tiny - oh hey! It's a city well house. I should recognize one of those, even if it has no sign. I used to have keys to a couple of those, back in the day. I call the guy, and he comes out for his freight.
"So you're bringing me some light bulbs?"
Ah, that explains the four-foot box. He signs, grabs both boxes, and we part, each with work to do.
I was delivering freight from an electrical supply place to an electrical contractor working in Mound. The location on the order was Mound Pump House. Never heard of it.
I've been to Mound quite a few times. There's a company there which uses our services regularly. So I know, for example, that it's a lovely lakeside community due west of Minneapolis way out on the shores of Lake Minnetonka. I know several roads in and out, where to buy a Subway sandwich, the location of the SA with its usable bathrooms, the location of a bank, a printing company, a clinic and the city offices. I knew where my street was located without looking it up on a map, and approximately where the address numbers should wind up. I just didn't know exactly what I was looking for. I had a nebulous idea, with a name like that, that it might be a bar in a remodel of an old fire station. I didn't count on it.
I was on the street in the general area, hunting for street numbers to guide me to the exact location. Depending on the community, these can be either easy or impossible to find. With the snow narrowing street lanes, there was no way to park to check out each building, so the initial plan was a slow drive-by, getting clues to narrow the search. I call it "address hunting", and anybody on the phone with me at the time knows that's when I need to hang up and concentrate on the job. I can talk with you while I'm doing my "big map" driving, the part where I mentally picture my route to the area, and my autopilot takes over getting me there. All I need to concentrate on then is safety. There's brain enough left for a casual conversation, or listening to the radio, or enjoying the weather, or....
I'd already noticed the street name had changed, as the street had just swung a block north. So I needed to follow it back to before the curve and find out if my drop would be there or I needed to backtrack and pick up my street from another angle. That's when it happened.
Rinnnggg!
I pulled the cell from my pocket and glanced at the caller ID to see if this call could be ignored. These days many can't. This one was from headquarters. I better answer.
"This is Heather."
"Hi, this is _____ from the office. How are you doing?"
"I'm address hunting." Take the hint, make this quick, I'm busy here.
"I'm on the phone with _____ and they want to know how soon you'll be in Mound."
Really? Already? I'm not late yet. In fact there's still a half hour on the run. "Mound is where I am. I'm looking for the drop now."
"Oh, if you're having trouble finding it, you can call _____. He can guide you in."
Well, I wasn't having trouble. Not until you called and interrupted my process. I'm now in a moving holding pattern, taking left turn lanes to make u-turns to go up and down this street since there's no safe or convenient stopping place, staying out of other drivers' way, keeping in the location. As for the number, it's standard procedure for jobsite drops to get a first name and cell number to facilitate the hand-off. I've already looked at the order and know it's there.
"I'm not having trouble. I just can't find it and talk to you on the phone at the same time."
And even if I were, I can't call the guy, because - Hello! - you're on my phone. Duh! Now I'm trying to be polite, but I'm getting irritated, and I suspect by this time a little "tone" is creeping through. Maybe she can type and talk on the phone at the same time - it is her job, after all - but certain things do not combine well. And there seems to be a failure of imagination on her part.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I can concentrate on talking to you or on finding the address, but not both."
"Well, what do I tell the customer?"
Hmmm, that's an open ended question if there ever was one. I have several ideas, but... Professionalism wins.
"Tell him I'm at the corner of _____ and _____ and will be there in under two minutes." Now please go away and let me do the job you're so anxious for me to finish!
During this exchange I have determined that my address is where I am but a block back, so it's time for the different angle approach. Odd, because there's nothing visible back there. But I check it out: a one block dead-end street. No exits. Just piles of snow. But at the end, as I turn around, I spy the truck I'm looking for by its company logo. I just have to go back where I was originally and come back behind the building on the other street. No biggie. Now I know.
Still within my two minutes, I pull up next to the truck. It's parked right beside a little tiny - oh hey! It's a city well house. I should recognize one of those, even if it has no sign. I used to have keys to a couple of those, back in the day. I call the guy, and he comes out for his freight.
"So you're bringing me some light bulbs?"
Ah, that explains the four-foot box. He signs, grabs both boxes, and we part, each with work to do.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Meteoric Irony
There was a spectacular meteor shower last night. I heard about it on the radio.
I wish they wouldn't have said that.
This is, after all, Minnesota. And December. And we have exactly two choices - well, alternatives, rather - when it comes to meteor showers in December. Either it will be beautifully clear, and even if you can get past the bit about the best part being around 2:00 AM, you will have to experience it when the temperatures are around -18 degrees. That's below zero. We're talking Fahrenheit here. I mean really, really cold. That doesn't even factor in the wind chill. Now be honest: what meteor shower is worth that?
The other alternative is warmer, but only in a relative way. It involves lots of cloud cover.
There is no happy medium. Not here, not now. So I wish the radio announcer had just kept that particular tidbit to himself.
I wish they wouldn't have said that.
This is, after all, Minnesota. And December. And we have exactly two choices - well, alternatives, rather - when it comes to meteor showers in December. Either it will be beautifully clear, and even if you can get past the bit about the best part being around 2:00 AM, you will have to experience it when the temperatures are around -18 degrees. That's below zero. We're talking Fahrenheit here. I mean really, really cold. That doesn't even factor in the wind chill. Now be honest: what meteor shower is worth that?
The other alternative is warmer, but only in a relative way. It involves lots of cloud cover.
There is no happy medium. Not here, not now. So I wish the radio announcer had just kept that particular tidbit to himself.
Tripple Charlie
It seems I learn something new nearly every day. Some good, some bad, some, despite being new, boring.
On Sunday night I discovered something about lower legs. Between the knee and the ankle there are at least three very distinct different muscles, holding things together and facilitating movement in three very different ways. There is one extending down the outer side of the calf. It seems to be long and thin. Up high behind the knee, there is a short lumpy one, and another in the back, mid-calf.
While I can't say for sure these are the only ones, I can say for sure they are distinct, and they pull in different ways. I know, because they all cramped at once on me.
My usual attack on charlie horses is two-fold: stretching it out, in the short term, and upping my calcium intake for the longer term. The second was simple. The first, not so much. Every way I moved to relieve one muscle, another one cramped harder. There was no way to become stable. Rubbing didn't help. Eventually, I was able to, from a sitting position, extend the heel way back behind me. This didn't eliminate the cramping, but it did exert some stretch on all three muscles to the point where I could bear it. Well, so long as I didn't move even a twitch. Then it was back to where it started.
Finally, and just because I very much needed to, I was able to stand and walk to the bathroom. That actually seemed to ease the cramping out. Or perhaps the calcium I'd sent Paul to fetch had started working. (I wasn't feeling up to a double-blind study right then: try everything and hope something works.)
I'm keeping the calcium levels high for now. They're still sore muscles, reminding me that they're ready to attack again, given provocation. But for now it's just a reminder.
Whew!
On Sunday night I discovered something about lower legs. Between the knee and the ankle there are at least three very distinct different muscles, holding things together and facilitating movement in three very different ways. There is one extending down the outer side of the calf. It seems to be long and thin. Up high behind the knee, there is a short lumpy one, and another in the back, mid-calf.
While I can't say for sure these are the only ones, I can say for sure they are distinct, and they pull in different ways. I know, because they all cramped at once on me.
My usual attack on charlie horses is two-fold: stretching it out, in the short term, and upping my calcium intake for the longer term. The second was simple. The first, not so much. Every way I moved to relieve one muscle, another one cramped harder. There was no way to become stable. Rubbing didn't help. Eventually, I was able to, from a sitting position, extend the heel way back behind me. This didn't eliminate the cramping, but it did exert some stretch on all three muscles to the point where I could bear it. Well, so long as I didn't move even a twitch. Then it was back to where it started.
Finally, and just because I very much needed to, I was able to stand and walk to the bathroom. That actually seemed to ease the cramping out. Or perhaps the calcium I'd sent Paul to fetch had started working. (I wasn't feeling up to a double-blind study right then: try everything and hope something works.)
I'm keeping the calcium levels high for now. They're still sore muscles, reminding me that they're ready to attack again, given provocation. But for now it's just a reminder.
Whew!
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