The beginning is, I have had really prominent varicose veins on the back of my left leg since I was nine or ten. I don't really remember which. Ten makes more sense than nine, but neither is a very typical age for this sort of vascular irregularity. I don't know how old my paternal grandmother was when she got hers, but I bet it was before she left Michigan for U-Chicago. I wish I looked more like both of my beautiful grandmothers (shout out to Nana), but I like that Rae's in my veins.
The middle is that the back of my left leg started hurting really badly a few days ago. I could tell it was the veins. The doctor at the health center said it was probably superficial and nothing advil wouldn't cure in a few days, but that just in case I had to head to the hospital immediately. "Get yourself there," is what she said.
Took a taxi on my mom's advice. Taxis never occur to me. I'm not bragging about my frugality; frappuccinos occur to me all the time. Anyway, it turns out the taxi driver had checked into Alta Bates hospital in 2004. He had five heart attacks in one hour and went into a coma for nine days. He now has the heart of a 27 year old. I got his number so if you come to visit, he's picking you up from the airport.
After an uncomfortable ultrasound, the vascular technician decided that I do have some superficial blood clots that aren't dangerous and will clear up in a few days. But when I come home for winter break, I'm gonna get them surgically removed so this doesn't happen again. Bloomingtonians, get ready to show an invalid some love.
