Support Hose

     Do you have sore or tired legs? Recently had a surgical procedure on your legs?
     Then compression hose are for you!
     They come in full or knee-length, different sizes according to your height, and either dress, athletic, or casual styles.
     There's only one problem: getting them on!
     I recently had a minor surgical procedure done above one knee. Since companies don't make support hose for single legs, Laurie, the doctor's assistant, asked what my height was. After I told her, she returned with a pair of skin-toned compression stockings and some thin rubber gloves.
     "These should fit," she said, "They're casual, and not too thick. Please wear them for two days, but take them off at night." She had a smirk on her face.
     The stockings looked like Pantyhose, with the standard construction of a strong elastic band at the waist and nylon covering the hips and buttocks thicker than the leg portion. If these were the thinnest variety, I pictured the thicker ones resembling an alligator's skin. "What are the gloves for?" I asked.
     "You'll see. First, sit down on the examining table so I can help." She handed me the gloves to put on, put another pair on herself, and sat on a low stool at my feet.
     "Many patients think this is just like putting on Pantyhose. It's not. The first thing you do is scrunch up the hose in your hands all the way down to the ankle. That way you can put your foot in without getting it caught."
     She handed me one scrunched-up leg. The flesh-colored nylon that filled my entire hand was at least three times the thickness of a Pantyhose. I slipped it over my foot.  So far, so good!
     "OK, now pull the hose up about six inches. It's much thicker than Pantyhose, so don't expect it to go farther than that. You'll have to straighten it every few inches. The gloves will let you get a firm grip." From the floor she helped the hose go north of my ankle. "You try the rest of the leg."
     The opening for my upper thigh was about the size of my fist. "Are you serious? I have to put that over my thigh? I feel like an elephant trying to get into a pail."
     "Keep working every few inches."
     At first I pulled so hard I thought the stuff was going to rip. Then I jumped down from the table and twisted. I squirmed. I thrashed. I got the damned nylon up to the middle of my thigh but by then sweat was dripping into my eyes so I couldn't see. Laurie was trying to stifle her laughter. She handed me some paper towels.
     "It is pretty funny," I said, sitting back down on the examining table. "I felt a twinge in my abdomen. Maybe I pulled a muscle there I didn't know I had!" The stocking was binding my thigh like a lasso pulled tight. "Maybe I've got some blog material here." I began to laugh with her.
     "Now the other leg," Laurie said. She left me on my own for that one.
     "Can I try it without the glove?" I asked, thinking I'd get a better grip with my very sweaty hands. It felt as if my first leg had a tourniquet around it. I began to feel pins and needles creeping along the seam and looked down to make sure the leg wasn't turning purple.
     "Sure, go ahead," she said.
     I removed the gloves and held them upside down. They dripped moisture as though I'd used them in a tennis match. I scrunched up the other leg all the way down and tried to put the wad over my foot. My hands slipped and my foot got caught half-way up the wad. So much for bare hands! I put the gloves back on, got my second foot in, and jumped down from the table.
     At mid-thigh level on the second leg, I felt as if I'd played three sets of hard tennis. "There's no way the rest of me is going into this opening," I said to Laurie, holding open the elastic that was supposed to go around my waist.
     She just kept grinning from the floor. "Just a few inches at a time," she said.
     My hips weren't the problem. It was my butt. I've never had a small butt, even when I was twelve years old. It's a wonder I was able to get off the ground during all the years I was a cheerleader! You would think the exercises I've done for years at the fitness center and all the tennis I play would have made it smaller.
     I began to do the twist, pulling the nylon over my butt first on the right side, then on the left. Laurie clapped from the floor. Next I pulled up the waistband and jumped up and down. Too bad I couldn't get a few jumping jacks in, but I'd had enough exercise for one day. "Just a few more inches," she said. "Maybe your husband can help you tomorrow."
     That sent me flopping back on the table in hysterics as I pictured Charley stuffing me into a sausage casing from the floor. "Are you sure I can't leave them on tonight?" I asked.
     "Trust me. You won't want to!"
   
   

   
   

A Doctor's Office in Florida

     One November a doctor (not my primary-care) ordered an ultrasound - a simple outpatient procedure at the hospital which lasts approximately twenty to thirty minutes.  I wasn't scheduled to have the test until the following April, and in-between I lost the prescription I needed to take with me.

     I called the doctor's office two days before the scheduled date to request another written prescription. "Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and the nurse will return your call," the answering machine told me.  I did as I was told.  No return call that day.

     I called back the next day to make the same request. Again I heard, "Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and the nurse will return your call."  I explained what I needed and described the urgency for the ultrasound test the next day.  If the doctor couldn't fax me the paper, I was prepared to go pick it up.  No return call that day.

     Since my hospital appointment wasn't scheduled until the afternoon, I jumped in the car the day of the test and headed to the doctor's office in the morning. I signed in and knocked on the closed window. A sign on the glass read, "Please do no knock on the glass."

     "Yes?" the receptionist said.

     "I don't have an appointment but have left messages for two days that I have an ultrasound scheduled this afternoon and have lost my script.  I haven't heard a word."

     "Your name?  (I answered.)  Take a seat, please."  The glass window slid closed and I found an empty chair.

     "I don't know why anyone comes here, but their reputation is so good," the patient sitting next to me said, her long braid following her as she shook her head back and forth.  "There are too many doctors in here.  I had a reaction to a medication and I called this morning, but the doctor's gone on vacation. So now I'm supposed to see another one, but I've got to get back to work in an hour.  They told me on the phone there would be no problem.  I've already waited thirty minutes."  Her mouth turned down as she got up to approach the glass fortification at the window.

     Just then we heard pounding from the outside hall against the waiting room door.  "Let us in!" someone shouted.

     "We're stuck out here and can't get in," another voice yelled.  The pounding continued.

     The patient closest to the door rose to help.  His helpful willingness camouflaged his sallow complexion and sagging Bermuda shorts.  He fiddled with the door knob but couldn't disengage the lock.  The next patient in the row jumped up. "Let me see what I can do, old-timer," he said. When the lock disengaged, a torrent of patients poured in and lined up behind the closed glass doors.

     The woman with the time issue stood at the front of the line.  "Excuse me," she said, knocking on the glass till it shivered in its tracks.  "I'm sorry to cut in," she said to the person signing in, "but I have to get back to work."

     The glass slid open.  "Mrs. Carey?" I heard.

     "Yes," I said, out of my seat like a kid's jack-in-the-box.

     "Here's another copy of your script," the receptionist said, handing me the paper and swiveling an evil eye toward the woman who'd knocked.

     "Thanks," I said, spinning in place for a quick retreat.

     "You're next," the receptionist said to the irritated patient who'd spoiled her day. "Please enter the door to the left. The rest of you, please sign in," she said, slamming the glass shut.

     When I got home, I found the original script buried in my calendar.

     On my follow-up visit, I bit the bullet.  "I've been coming here a long time," I said to the doctor. "May I have a private conversation with you?"  I proceeded to explain the situations that had arisen in one day's visit.

     "If you don't tell us the issues, we'll never know," the doctor said.  "Would you be willing to explain all this to our office manager?"  He led me down the hall.

     The day before I visited that doctor the following year, I got a personalized message on my answering machine confirming my appointment.  When I arrived, the glass doors above the sign-in sheet stood open. Inside the office, one staff member was answering the phone, another writing receipts and scripts for patients exiting. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Carey," the receptionist said with a smile.  "The doctor will be seeing you in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, please sign in and let me know if there's anything I can do for you."