Making Me Cry

I wake at Five

What is going on here. No matter how late I go to sleep, I wake up around Five. Maybe I should be working. That's my body telling me that I need to go out and get a Job. But I already have a job. I'm a writer, reporter, and novelist. It doesn't pay a damn, but I still get to work. I have to get up today to go to the office. As I rest my foot down on the floor, a solid shriek of pain shoots up my leg. I roll over onto my back. The side of my foot is swollen. The gout had grown over night. What kind of shit is this??

I sit up and limp to my little Darling coffee maker and run up two cups. Yum. I turn on my laptop, getting ready for the world. I wait to see Yahoo pop up. That is my morning glory, watching the news headlines on Yahoo. I pull off my sit ups pretty easily, but the push ups take a little gymnastic ingenuity. I have to do them on one foot. I can too. 45 of them on one fucking foot. I thought about that. There was a time when twenty was a bitch. I do that side bridge thing until my sides hurt and I'm panting like a busted steam engine.

I grab my clothes, towel and bar of soap and head to the showers. This time taking the Southwest shower because I didn't feel like a cold one today. Did I tell you that I checked both of the Eastern showers? THEY have hot water!!! I should put in a work order about that. Get them working on this, because a cold water shower, or even a lukewarm one, like I had to take today, is a bitch. It wakes you the fuck up though. I get back into my room and get dressed, dreading the moment of truth. Putting my damn shoe on.

I ease my foot into it until the toe knuckle reaches the edge of the shoe. That's where the fun begins. There began this wailing pain, which I could grimace through, but the stabbing pains up the leg made me stop at times, taking a break from the torture. I work this out, me and the foot, and in a few minutes I have it in the shoe. Not that this was comfortable, but it beats walking barefooted through the subways to the office. I limp around my room, the pain now telegraphing signals all around my foot. I packed my gear, threw on my jackets and backpack and was out the door.

It was difficult going, hitting the street. I limped down the block and about the time that I reached the second block I knew that this was not going to work. The stairs alone were going to kill me. That was it, I limped to the Associated Supermarket instead. You know the one. The one that is so cramped that you have to step outside just to turn around. I bought some Lean Cuisine for my diet and headed back home. I left the damn shoe on and popped two TYLENOL to kill the pain. Then I wrote an email to Dr. A to see if he could phone in a prescription for COLCHICINE for me, to attack this gout that I've been dealing with for three days now.

I don't know if it was tiredness from turning in so late, for waking up so early, or the TYLENOL settling in, but I felt exhausted and crashed on my bed. Say goodbye to pain.

Later, upon rising I find no emails. Depressing, especially since I was looking for a reply from my Doctor saying that I could go to the pharmacy to pick up my meds. I surfed, still keeping my shoe on. The pain was much reduced now, the TYLENOL doing its thing. While goofing off online, an email flag pops up from my Doctor. I check it. He says to go and pick up my prescription, he phoned it in. Thank God!!

I get my jackets on again and head to the Duane Reade pharmacy across the street.

Now let me preface this next section with the statement that the pharmacy in this particular Duane Reade, is filled the the most stupidest, disorganized bunch of assholes known to modern man. I'm surprised that I go to them to get my prescriptions filled. They look like the type of idiots that would give you the wrong meds and kill your fucking ass. They can GET NOTHING RIGHT. Every time I come here, there is an irate customer(s) before the counter bitching and moaning. I know that it must be a tough job, but I've seen Duane Reade's the world over and I've never seen a pharmacy as fucked up as this one.

After waiting on a line of disgruntled patrons I reach the counter and come before a young man who is clearly overwhelmed with getting your last name, walking ten feet to a wall that has the prescriptions hanging in alphabetical order, and pulling yours out. I'm serious. He cannot do this amazing feat. He stands before the wall of medicines for a moment and then returns, asking you to spell your name. Then he walks to the wall once more, and vanishes somewhere in the back for five minutes before telling you that the prescription is not finished yet. That's what he does to the people ahead of me, and that's what he does to me.

Well that's just great. An entire day with this fucking foot. I buy some stuff that I need and limp the fuck back home, settling down in my little room and making myself comfortable. I decide to remove the shoe. I'm not going anywhere for the rest of the day. I'll pick up the COLCHICINE tomorrow. Removing the shoe was just as hard as putting the pecker on, but I got the fucker off.

I had to take a break from the pain.

TYLENOL and the Internet. Wow.

Hobobob