Tag Archives: hospital

Ankle

dictionary with letter A

Ankle: (n.) the narrow part of the body, including a joint, between the foot and the calf.

During a six month period at age twenty, I sprained my ankle about five times. It was brought about by a natural imbalance.

I was a healthy, energetic and semi-athletic fat boy who believed I could move with the grace and ease of my skinnier counterparts, only to discover that my obesity played out whenever my ankle would step in the wrong direction and twist.

It made me so mad. I kept re-injuring the same ankle over and over again–my left one.

The first time I banged it up was caused by stepping down from a bus into a gopher hole, turning the ankle so badly that I was convinced that the bottom of my shoe touched my shin. Unfortunately, I had plans to go on a weekend trip which I refused to cancel, so when the ankle on my already-chubby leg grew to the size of a tree trunk, I insisted on walking on it and continuing my plans with friends, even though moving a mere twenty yards took me about thirty minutes.

I didn’t care. I was young, stubborn and determined to continue my quest for invincibility.

So the ankle tried to heal, and then because I went out to play football or shoot some hoops, it got bent again.

Honestly, I don’t know when it stopped being susceptible to injury, but somewhere along the line I must have rested it long enough to stop the onslaught of repetitive painfulness.

There are two parts of the human body that were never meant to be used for walking, running or actually any kind of upright position. One is the knee and the other is the ankle.

Sometimes when I look at that small region near the foot which is supposed to handle all of our weight, I think it’s a wonder we aren’t laid up in hospital beds … all the time.

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

Aneurysm

dictionary with letter A

Aneurysm: (n.) an excessive localized enlargement of an artery caused by the weakening of the artery wall.

I sat for a moment, shaking my head in disbelief, unwilling to receive the information that had been imparted to me.

A friend of mine, twenty-five years of age, had suddenly died.

He had a brain aneurysm.

Rushing to the hospital and arriving on the scene, I found myself bouncing from one friend to another in search of meaning–some sort of explanation of how this could possibly have happened to such a youthful, energetic and healthy individual.

Nobody knew.

So I decided to ask the doctor. “How can he be dead? He was so healthy.”

The doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “It was a done deal when he was born.”

He went on to kindly explain that the weakness in my friend’s blood vessel was there at birth and was on a ticking clock of twenty-five years. And when the bell rang, his school was out.

I had so many questions. Were there any signs? How about symptoms?

But the doctor gently nudged me into the path of reason.

“We’re all going to die, and we really can’t change the date forward too much. If we don’t take care of ourselves we can hasten it. But sometimes, there’s one little blood vessel that doesn’t understand the value of jogging and eating broccoli, and just gives up too soon.”

How fearfully and wonderfully we are made, said the Psalmist.

Often we linger over the wonderful nature of the human mechanism.

But let us not ever forget how frighteningly fragile it can be also. 

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

Air

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Air: (n) the invisible gaseous substance surrounding the earth, a mixture mainly of oxygen and nitrogen.

I am a better person when I think about air.

I am more valuable to myself when I appreciate what I breathe and cease to act like a spoiled brat, contending it’s insignificant.

I remember the first time I went to a hospital and required oxygen. I didn’t know I needed oxygen–the doctor explained that the air I was breathing and how I was processing it was not producing enough restorative energy to make me feel good. It sounded stupid. That is, until they hooked the oxygen up to my nose, and within five minutes, my head cleared, I found myself breathing deeper and was completely in the midst of a rejuvenation.

Little did I know how much I needed more air … until the lack of air left me verging on a quiet desolation.

Now, I realize we can become silly or obsessed with appreciation. But candidly, I think very few of us risk that posture. We are much more likely to become jaded and sarcastic.

I don’t know how God came up with the right mixture of oxygen, nitrogen and other inert gases to place within the breath that fills our lungs fifteen to forty times a minute.

But the stuff works.

Stop and think about that. How many concoctions do we use every day that only partially fulfill their promise?

But air just keeps delivering the goods … and has eight billion satisfied customers.

Adenoids

Words from Dic(tionary)

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Adenoids: (n.) a mass of enlarged lymphatic tissue between the back of the nose and the throat, often hindering speaking and breathing in young children.

I was only ten years old so the significance completely evaded me.

Our family physician was named Dr. Livingston. To me it was just another name, not a literary setup, so when Dr. Livingston looked over his silver spectacles and told my mother and father that I needed to have my tonsils removed–otherwise I would have tonsillitis any time it was rumored to be in the area–they agreed.

They were further delighted when he told them that while he was in there yanking out the little boogers, that he might as well take my adenoids, too. It was common at the time. Tonsils were apparently so emotionally linked to adenoids that it was a given in the medical field that if you took one you had better remove the other, too, or fussiness would ensue.

Dr. Livingston? Tonsils and adenoids, I presume?

My father, being raised in a miserly German home, was excited because he felt he was getting two operations for the price of one.

So I was sent to a clinic in the big city twenty miles from our little burg, and was prepped for surgery. This was long before anethesia was perfected. It was actually barely beyond the phase of a shot of whiskey and a punch in the jaw.

What they used to put you under was ether. Now, let me explain what ether smells like. It has a distinctive odor. Imagine if a bottle of alcohol let off a big, stinky fart.

There you go.

So after they had removed my co-dependent organs, I awoke to the smell of this nasty “stinky” in the air, to spend the next hour-and-a-half doing nothing but trying to regurgitate all of my insides for public view.

About two hours later my stomach finally calmed down and they told me I could have some nice, cool Jello. (I had heard rumors that ice cream was the normal gift given to a patient, but apparently I ended up at K-Mart Presbyterian Municipal Hospital, where budget cuts were inserted to extract all pleasures.)

Unfortunately, the flavor they chose for my Jello was cherry.

When my mother and father wanted to go out and catch a bite to eat, they left my older brother in charge. The cherry jello by then had landed in my stomach, was introduced to the raging ether, and was immediately evicted. So when I threw up my cherry jello, my brother was convinced that I was bleeding to death. He ran through the halls screaming for nurses to come and save me.

The comical part (as if it isn’t already) was that it took the nurses at least ten minutes to figure out that what was in my bed pan had the unmistakable fragrance of Kool-aid.

Things went back to normal–if you call being ten years old, in a hospital, losing your tonsils and adenoids, vomiting profusely, with a maniac for a brother, only room for Jello and without the benefit of an ice cream confection … anywhere near normalcy.