the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I'm mentally and emotionally fine, which is the most important thing, but just how many things can go wrong with my body at once? I mean, really.

My foot's twisted and broken. It felt pretty good for a day or two last week, and now it's back to plaguing me. It all started with my checkup appointment yesterday.

I had to go back to the hospital for my follow-up appointment yesterday. This meant I had to leave the house and work my way toward the bus stop on my polio crutches.

They don't use proper crutches here. and mid-arm style crutches are not user-friendly. They don't rub on the inside of your arm, true. However, your balance on a crutch that only comes to mid-arm is precarious, at best.

Anyway...I leave the house and look for a bus or a cab, whichever comes by first. There's a bus stop about a hundred yards from my front door. I hobble toward it hoping to be picked up before I get there.

When you're on crutches, see, going somewhere--however slowly--is more comfortable than standing. Standing makes the one buttcheek that's supporting your weight seize up. So there I am at the bus stop. There's no bench at this one, so my buttcheek is screaming. I bet passersby can hear it. A couple of "taksis" whiz past, but they already have fares. The bus comes first.

OK. This is cheaper than a cab, anyway. I take the bus down the hill--the driver motions me to sit next to him or just stay on the steps, since I'm his next-to-last stop. At the bottom of the hill, I hobble over to the next bus, which drops me a couple of blocks away from the hospital where I'm to see my doctor.

It's a gorgeous day, by the way. It's about 20C with a light breeze. I'm hobbling past the KulturPark, which I've never actually visited. It is a large and incredibly beautiful park (and zoo! I'm told) in the middle of Izmir. I feel the breeze. I stop and rest occasionally, sitting on the low stone wall. It's only a couple of blocks to the hospital.

Right. "A couple of blocks" in polio crutches may as well be five miles. When I get there, I smell mildly Turkish. Even though I wear biking gloves to protect my palms, they only help so much. My palms are sore, my triceps are about to go on strike, my shoulder--remember it? bursitis--is inflamed, and don't even let me get started with the buttcheek. The one active calf is bitching about the unfair labor laws, and the mangled foot is throbbing...of course (what part of "Keep it elevated" do I not understand?).

But hey! I got there for a mere 1.70TL! That's roughly a dollar. woohoo. :|

I didn't remember my doctor's name, and no one had set up an actual appointment time for me. Furthermore, I didn't know where to go in the hospital.

I went up the wheelchair ramp and into the lobby. There were a couple of young women at a desk in the front. It looked like "information" to me. I walked up and said, "Any English?"

They looked puzzled a minute, then one said, "No." (Mmmmok. That was informational.) She picked up the phone and called someone, said there was another English-speaking dingbat in the lobby and would she come down? She hung up the phone, then walked around and carefully said, "Follow me please."

She put me in a lobby chair to wait. Yessssssss. I'd brought my Kindle, but wasn't yet interested. I reveled in the sheer thrill of sitting.

Soon, another young woman walked up and said, "Can I help you?"

ME: I hope so. I was brought here last Saturday and the doctor put a cast on my foot. He said To come back this morning for a checkup. I don't know his name or where to go.

I tried to look as pathetic as possible, which took precious little effort at this point.

HER: The orthopedic doctor?

ME: Yes!

HER: Let me find out if they want to see you in the emergency room or in his office. I'll be right back.

ME: Thank you very much.

She came back shortly and said the doctor wanted more X-rays. I asked for a wheelchair (please!), and she said, "Of course." Someone brought around a wheelchair that cannot be controlled by the person in it. The wheels are fairly small, and you must be pushed to go anywhere (do they have a problem with people escaping in wheelchairs?). I was just happy to be sitting. My buttcheek twitched when I transferred over, but otherwise, all was well.

I was left to wait outside the X-ray room. It's the same one I remember: the one with a furiously leaking air conditioner in the corner. It was my second time in that one room. I again fought off the feeling that there was a hole somewhere that I needed to plug with my finger, or else. The dripping is so bad it's unsettling.

After the X-rays, I was wheeled back into the lobby. The English-speaking woman said the doctor would take a look at my X-rays then come see me. I crossed my crutches under my foot to prop it up a bit, then settled into my Kindle. I'm reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson. It's all about his experiences with drugs, really, and if you're anything like me, this is as close are you want to ever come to the stuff he's doing, and it still may be too close. (He is utterly brilliant, nonetheless.)

The doc came down to see me. He said the X-rays were good. My foot is healing properly and well. I need to return in three weeks, and maybe he'll take off the cast.

Aw hell.

I broke my foot in the fifth grade (the left one), and I don't remember how long I was in the cast. I knew it felt like forever, but I was in the fifth grade, right?

It is forever.

I dissolved into Hunter S. Thompson again while I waited for them to bring me their report/records. They were afraid they'd lose the information, so they gave my information to me. This took "about 15 minutes" (over an hour, after which I hobbled over to a couple of random people who worked there and told them vaguely that I was waiting for my records or something from a doctor and could they help me). Shortly thereafter, the English-speaking woman--who is clearly worth her weight (times five) in gold to that hospital--brought me my most recent X-rays and something written in Turkish. She said she'd translate what it said and send it to my work email. (Oh good. Work...where I don't go anymore? Mmmmmk.)

They brought my wheelchair back (someone had whisked it off in the five minutes I'd been throwing myself at the mercy of the poor non-English-speaking women in the lobby who tried to help me this time), then pushed me to a taksi. The woman pushing me got stuck on a gutter. I tried to tell her ("Tamam! Tamam!") that it was ok...I would "walk" from there. The cab was 15 feet away. But two strangers rushed over and lifted the wheelchair free of the gutter, and helped me into the cab.

Incidentally...even before I stupidly injured myself, I've been impressed with the willingness of strangers to help others here. It's a large city, but people don't just walk away, and they don't ignore those in need. If an older person gets on public transportation, someone will give up a seat for that person. The same holds for pregnant women, women with children, or cripples. There is often, believe it or not, a competition for who will give up his or her seat for the needy. Consistently. It's awe-inspiring.

Last week, when I went to the BX to do several errands at once, I ended up taking the bus, and had to wait on a connection. The bench at this stop had three available seats. They were all taken, of course. As soon as I hobbled up and tried to situate myself leaning against the shelter, a woman roughly my age with a broken arm yielded her seat. I didn't protest; my foot was throbbing. I sat down and they asked what had happened. I assume this, naturally; that's what strangers say, right? I said, "I wish I understood what you were saying." They smiled, nodded, and said, "Ah." Clearly, this noise is universal.

After a bit, I spotted a bus that was about to leave but I couldn't see the number. I hopped up and crutched out in front of it. It was the wrong number, as it turns out. I crutched back, where an elderly man also using polio crutches had taken my seat. He stood as I came up. I said, "NONOONONO!" He crutched away, nonetheless. I sat down with a sigh. Of course....no Turkish man, no matter how invalid or old, would remain seated when a woman on crutches needed a seat. Silly of me.

Back to the hospital: I thanked all who helped me to the taksi, then asked the cabbie to take me to Montro. Montro is a well-known traffic circle in the middle of Izmir. He nodded and sped off. I asked to be dropped at McDonalds, and gave him 5TL (less than $4), then crutched the 50 feet or so to the "hidden door."

I'd spoken with Anthony the night before. He's also in the AF and a fellow chess enthusiast. He's learning to play, and I enjoy the game. I'd asked him to my condo that afternoon to play. I've bought a nice game board, but Selma* is giving it a final finish before she delivers it.  I think she's having the chess pieces (brass) refinished, as well.

* Selma, as I mentioned before, sells handmade furniture. I bought this game table from her about ten days ago; that very afternoon, her father passed away. She was away from work for a few days, and now she's in mourning for 4o days. From 6-8 each night, she and her siblings mourn and pray. Yes, I'm atheist, but I like this custom. They're paying their respects.

Anyway. I ran into Anthony in the BX. He looked at me and my cast and just shook his head. I'd told him how it happened--the short version, in which I just fell down my own stairs. (It's humiliating but simple. There's a longer version, which makes much more sense, but I generally don't bother.) Anthony was more or less hanging out. He picked up some groceries, then decided to just accompany (and help) me home, which was doubly helpful since Bahar (the carpet lady!) had had my silk embroidered giant pillows double-stuffed and was sending them home with me. I picked up some entertainment supplies (munchies and booze) and Anthony and I came here.

I think he didn't stop saying, "This place is incredible!" for 15 minutes, and that ain't hyperbole. He helped me with my groceries and my pillows, then we moved a bit of furniture onto one of the balconies and set up the chess game.

I like this game. I'm not much good at it. I'm a perpetual amateur. I learned it when I was a kid; Noel--my big brother--taught me how to play. I was in grade school, I think. I* automatically made associations for how each piece could move (e.g., the king wears a crown and a huge train. He can move in any direction, but he can't move far at any given time, because of that train).

* I may win the net award for how many times I can reference myself in one paragraph.

Anthony is a beginner. I mercilessly cleaned up all his not-pawns on the first game. On the second game, he became (suddenly) much wiser. ;)

It was a blast, as cheesy as that sounds. I started laying off the attack and put my energies toward helping him master how the pieces move (this isn't as easy to master as you might think). He'll improve with time. I hope I do, too.

But it was fun. I was propping my foot, but it wouldn't stop throbbing. He left around 7, I think, and I chatted online for a bit then went to bed. I woke this morning with just everything hurting. My bad foot had decided it's broken again; the opposite knee is in pain, from the unwarranted stress. My shoulder is inflamed from the crutching. My butt has recovered, but now I'm dealing with the female curse.

No rest for the wicked. I'm pretty worthless right now. So I thought I'd blog.

d