Sick! Just Sick!

This shall go down in history as my week of... afflictions. It all started Saturday morning. I had been working all night, and my fellow night-shifters could verify that this was indeed the weekend from Hell! So Friday was no exception. By about 1:00 in the morning, I started to get really bothered by this little pain in my right foot. I am not talking about the run-of-the-mill tiredness and soreness that usually plagues my poor fat feet after hours and hours of running around the hospital. This really hurt. Oh, well. Life goes on, and the ER, to which I was assigned, was non-stop that night.
But with each passing hour, it was getting worse, and one of the doctors I work with noticed my limp. " Andrea, why don't you let me x-ray that?", she asks. Well, because even if it has somehow managed to fracture itself, I cannot take the time to go upstairs to my purse to get my insurance card, wait for registration, sit through the x-ray, and more. I had a job to do, and the little "Bong Bong" sounding alarm that signals the announcement of a Code Blue seemed to be the soundtrack of the night. So I continued to limp.
By 7:00 in the morning, I was regretting my decision. I was actually getting teary-eyed from the pain, and I am not a wuss. After I gave report to the oncoming shift, I hobbled down to the ER and checked myself in, no longer caring that someone I worked with was going to have to smell my feet after a twelve, and completely forgetting that I couldn't remember the last time I had shaved my legs.
So I am there, in the ER, surrounded by my coworkers. They completely baby me. Someone brings me a Diet Coke on ice. Another brings me a warm blankey and dims the lights, knowing I have had the night from hell and must hurt pretty badly to stay 3 hours after my shift has ended to be seen. What was the diagnosis? Plantar Fasciitis, which I must admit I thought was one of the B.S. diagnoses they give you when they have no explanation for what is going on. Just about every hypochondriac I have known has complained of this ailment. But this shit really hurts. So I read up on it some more, and am convinced they are wrong. I have no pain in my heels or even in the soles of my feet at all. The pain is in the metatarsal area of the top of my foot. But regardless, I continue to work my shifts over the weekend.
Monday morning, I return form another twelve and go directly to bed, only to wake up to the most horrendous stomach pain, followed by some bodily functions I will not speak of publically. I am very sick. I stay on the couch for the rest of the day, hoping and praying it goes away. Of course it does not. I had to call-in sick Monday night, which absolutely sucks. Nobody minds a day off of work, but I didn't want it to be a day of sickness. Plus the idea that some other overworked RT is having to cover for me makes me feel even worse. I hate calling-in sick. But I have to do so Tuesday night as well, as I am too weak to even stand by this point and am only able to hold down teensy sips of strawberry Powerade Zero.
Finally it is Tuesday night. The vomiting has subsided, but I am still terribly weak and miserable. I feel dehydrated and haven't washed my hair in days. Yuck. John brings me a refill of my Powerade (and my evening meal of 2 whopping spoonfuls of Jell-o). I but my left hand on the back of the couch to try to hoist my rubbery self up to a semi-sitting position so I can eat/ sip. But the problem is that there is a leg on the back corner of the sofa that has a stripped screw that needs to be fixed. I shift my weight, the leg comes off, the sofa crashes to the floor, and my left hand that was grasping the back of the sofa get crunched between the window sill and the solid sofa frame. Naturally I scream in a voice not my own that my hand is stuck and some other choice expletives. John just stares, mouth agape, with my Jell-o in one hand and my glass of Powerade in the other. He finally sets both of them down and goes for my hand---the one that is most obviously not stuck! This leaves me to scream some really not-so-nice things at him, when he was only trying to help. (But c'mon really! I am screaming that my hand is stuck in a scream that lets you know it is agonizingly painful, and you look and see that the hand in front of you is free. Do you stop and puzzle over it or do you realize, that, hey! I have 2 hands, so it must be the other one that is causing me to scream out in pain!) I should've gotten it splinted, but I cannot bear the thought of another bill this week.
So...I am limping around, still weak, with a finger that resembles black/purple tie-dye. Woe is me.