"There is a history in all men's lives." (Henry IV II)

.....Well, today was a wonderful day--there were no hurricanes, floods, tsunamis, or snowstorms.  However, I left my bed at 9:30 with severe pain emanating from the sore on my foot.  You know--you see a sign in the ER that allows you to make a choice--choose the level of your pain from 1 to 12.  I would venture to say my very own pain was about a 9.  In school lingo that's supposed to be a grade of honor, so I was very proud of the pain in my heal primarily because the pains in my groin and hip were only an 8.  I then went from the walker to the scooter, looking forward to sitting on it and alleviating all the pain in my body.  And so, it came to pass.  

.....I felt sick and had no plans to eat breakfast, but Val arrived and an English muffin with cream cheese suddenly appeared accompanied by some Swiss and coffee.  So, I ate them.  It turns out that Val, the aide, had arrived while my head had been covered with my arms, and she was the culprit (or Genie??) who provided the early morning repast.  While I was eating my breakfast, Geri, the wound care nurse, who appears every other day arrived to dress the wound on my foot--and so she did.  I informed her about the pain in my leg, but she didn't seem impressed.  After dressing the wound on my leg, she took my right arm and dressed the wound there.  You really don't want to know how it got there.  

.....And now, dear readers (if you're still there) it was time to go to the Hyperbaric/oxygen treatment the wound doctor ordered EVERY DAY!  It's rather comical that I get to nap in a glass bubble for an hour and a half when I could easily do that at home--except for the fact that I have no oxygen which the bubble nurse provides in doses three times greater than I breathe normally.  But I still don't know if it's effective in getting rid of the sore on my foot--or if it's a jolly good way to make a few bucks.  Well after this experience, I'm sorry to say it was not the last today.  I had to make a stop at the dermatologist's digs.  

And dig it was; his assistants stuck needles in my face and back, and I rightly guessed they were taking out some cancer cells; or, at least, I think that's what they were doing.

They planted about 7 or 8 bandaids where they had been working--on my nose, my cheeks, and my back.  If your head has been turned, and your brain assaulted perhaps you need to read this post over again.