I know it could be worse.

I almost cried at the hospital today.  It was not out of pain, though my foot has suddenly gone from being blissfully walkable to excruciatingly sore in the past few days.  No, these would have been tears of a control freak who has lost her grip on her own life; tears of frustration.

Today was my fifth hospital visit in ten days.  Things could be worse.  I could have burned both feet.  I could have burned the bottom of my foot, rather than just the entire surface of it.  I could be bedridden.  I could be dying of starvation in a small Ethiopian village.  I could have a huge, outstanding hospital bill or be refused treatment for lack of insurance (both of which would most likely be the case, were I still in the States).

Things could also be better.  I could not have an ongoing injury that is keeping me from working.  I could have a job that offered sick pay.  I could be rich.  I could be so rich that I wouldn't be having panic attacks about missing so much work at shitty hospitality jobs that I do not love.  I could be so rich that I could afford a butler!  A butler could go to the shops for me and bring me more codeine and call me "Miss," because I would instruct him not to call me "Ma'am."  A butler would mean that I wouldn't have to go on impeding the healing process by walking around on this stupid foot so much.

When the nurse unwrapped my foot for the fourth time today and it looked EXACTLY the same as it did the last two times — raw, pink, bleeding, swollen, generally really ugly — and then said, "Oh, wow, I didn't expect it to be that big," (one of the joys of a university hospital: you never seem to see the same person twice) I did want to cry.  

I wanted to scream, "Has no one made notes about the size or location of this burn?!  Why am I asked every single time where exactly on my foot it is and what they said last time?!  This is not my job!"  Of course, they usually ask out of kindness, to be sure not to graze it when they're cutting the bandages off.

I was spoiled for the first couple of days of my injury.  After my initial A&E visit, the pain was manageable with ibuprofen.  I was walking all over the place and marvelling at my proactivity in the face of adversity.  I shot a short film!  I worked two bartending shifts!  I told the anecdote of my pasta foot (I called it pasta foot) with the humour and distance of one who has made it through the worst part.

Even my first follow-up appointment on Tuesday morning was fun.  I was in a relatively good mood, despite having waited an hour for a scheduled appointment.  My nurse was goofy and friendly and from somewhere like Germany or Denmark.  I didn't ask him, but we had a good rapport as he "gently, gently" (his words) burst my new blisters and peeled away all the skin from the top of my foot like so much Elmer's glue.  It was dead!  It didn't even hurt!  I was convinced that all nurses were people I would like to get drinks with.  Maybe Maeve and Heke— (his name started with something like that) and I would go out together when this was all over and have good laugh about lancing blisters on my left foot!

Whereas walking around was good for my foot for the first few days — the nurse today explained that the increased circulation would have created more fluid under the "blister roof" (that is totally what it is called), thereby making the dead skin easier to remove on that second visit — it is now just bringing a lot of fluid (blood) to my foot and preventing it from healing in a timely manner.  She recommended staying off of it as much as possible.  She gave me crutches.

I always wanted crutches when I was a kid.  Or maybe it was a broken leg.  I think what I really wanted was the feeling of importance and popularity that comes with a cast and a Sharpie pen.  Crutches, as it turns out (and as everyone knows who has ever used them) are not so much fun.

The Standard European Issue are the ones with arms holes and handles at the front, as opposed to the more common underarm American model.  They are easier on the armpits, but harder on the hands.

I have only used them for one journey, so far: the one from the hospital onto the bus, the bus to my estate, and finally, the climb up the stairs to my flat.  That last bit was a bit awkward.  I hate them already for slowing me down and making me acknowledge that I have a real injury.

In an effort to stay positive, I will now make a list of things I can do from my current position with my foot elevated (I want to say levitated every time, it's so weird) on the back of the couch:

1. Write a novel
2. Eat snacks (which Jeeves should be brining me shortly)
3. Apply for jobs that offer sick pay
4. Find the humour in all of this and work it into my stand-up set
5. Watch disaster films and be glad that that hasn't happened
6. Become a caricature cartoonist
7. Do crunches

I threw that last one in because I am missing exercise, particularly cycling everywhere.  I don't even like doing crunches.  If you have any more suggestions for activities to be executed from a semi-recumbant position, please do let me know!