Sunday, May 13, 2007

Because the Day Wasn't Already Enough About Me

For Mother's Day I was gifted with a child-free afternoon that included lunch out and shoe shopping. But because I like my pleasant sunny afternoons alone with my husband to have a bit of flare for the dramatic, I spiked a red fevery cramping in my leg, that is already riddled with bruises and vericose veins, courtesy of our unborn son. The pain was sharp and severe, but did not prevent me from picking out shoes for both my husband and myself. By the time we got to my section to shoe shop, my leg pain was nearly blinding -- but the Buy One Get One Half Off Sale ended today -- along with my $5 off coupon. Pain shall not keep a woman from $10 sandals.

Within a few hours (and after a call to a friend who is an ER nurse and to my OB) I consented to make a quick run to the hospital to insure that the pain in my leg was not blood clots. I waited until the last possible moment before my husband was supposed to depart for Chicago for the week to insure maximum drama. My jealousy of him getting to spend a week all alone in the heart of a fabulous city on the company dime knows no limits. It should be noted that I urged him to go on and not wait around on results from the hospital, but do also note that he would have nothing to do with leaving until he was sure that everything was okay. I think it had less to do with concern for me (we both felt fairly certain that I was fine), but a lot more to do with the look of great disdain my mother would give were she to find out that he had left me to go to the ER alone. She's a little woman with a fierce dirty look!

An ultrasound of my leg and some blood work revealed that everything is okay. After a light admonishment from my mother for not calling my father to let him know I was in the ER, I made a quick call while waiting on lab results-- quickly rattling off the scenario and assurances that I was going to be fine to my step-mom, who answered the phone. I was hoping that would be the end of my interaction with them on the topic, but within a few minutes my dad was calling us back. Not only was he calling me back, but he also had my grandma on the speaker of his cell phone (he had been talking to her when I had called earlier) so she too could hear the report. Nothing like a 3-way call with your dad and grandmother on speaker phones while sitting in an ER bed while pain shoots down your leg. After repeating the scenario to my captive audience, my grandma chimes in with our family's history with these sorts of issues -- assuring me that I come by it honestly. She rattled off an unmemorable title for what they called it when she used to get it when pregnant with her 4 children, and told me that my great-great grandma had suffered through it when carrying all EIGHT of her children. Then she adds in, "Back then, they always called it 'Milk Leg' because it only happened to pregnant women.

And that's really when I was done with the conversation. While my dad is heartily laughing at the notion of me having something called "Milk Leg", I exclaim "Milk Leg? You gave me MILK LEG! Grandma, as if inheriting your curved finger nails, big boobs, and babies with oversized craniums isn't enough -- now you're passing on MILK LEG!??"

To seal the misery, she adds in, "Yeah, I still have to wear support hose to this day because of the damage my children did to my legs. When pregnant with your uncle I had to wear those big thick ones..."

My dad chimes in with a chortle and a "Yeah Juge, maybe you can get some of those shiny the Hooters girls..."

Thank goodness for my niece who seemed more sincerely concerned when she proclaimed to my sister and daughter, who stayed at their house while we sat at the hospital, "I really hope they don't have to cut her leg off."

My leg is still in tact, but I may indeed have to consult a Hooters girl about those tights. You know, milk leg can't be left unattended.

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