Sturdy on My Feet

I did learn a couple things from my three-plus day visit to Sturdy Hospital.
I did find the diabetes educator helpful and approachable about things. I learned some of the reasons for some establishment thinking, even if I think some seem more like excuses or covers for profiteering than legitimate reasons.
The night of my admission, I had been having stomach acid problems due to the prednisone and had drunk almost a half gallon of milk before leaving the house. Because they ran blood sugar tests on my arrival, I learned how seriously I was underestimating the blood sugar effects of 1% milk; that was the reason for the spike into the 600’s, which was high by my reckoning of the numbers and how I was feeling in the ER that night.
I unfortunately learned a little more disdain for the "lower levels" of health care providers, and perhaps for declining American work ethic. That single nurse-type who did bother to rinse the portable urinal had a foreign accent. None of the American-accented nurse types–whether they would officially be termed registered nurses, nurses, or certified nursing assistants–could have been bothered. The priority of the nurse types’ convenience over actual patient comfort and care astounded me. I have a strong customer service background, and do not see how many of the staffers I encountered that weekend would ever have lasted under some of the expectations I have had to meet.
I did not find hospital food to be all that bad, but most certainly bland for the lack of "unhealthy" flavorings. The salt substitute packets on the tray didn’t cut it for me. As far as I am concerned, something called "Mrs. Dash" should be put on a woman’s yeast infection, not on food. My roommate smuggled in real salt. I’m not a heavy salt user, but need it when it is needed.
I learned to stick to my guns. Both Sturdy’s podiatrist Dr. Harris and my own podiatrist Dr. Mancini complimented my successful battle zone of not letting the surgeon poke anything into the Charcot foot. Support like that, along with the hospital roommate’s compliments to my willingness to stand up to doctors might be dangerous praise with the ability to make a monster out of the raw material I provide.
I’ll try to keep myself in check.
Six weeks after admission and the weekend imprisonment, the toe is OK. I still have it, which is a feat for diabetic feet with infection that gangrened. I am still bothered overseen by a visiting nurse that my podiatrist wants keeping an eye on the infected area. Mancini himself sees me every couple weeks to check on the toe and the same foot’s broader Charcot problem. He cuts away strips of dead or undesirable skin. As I can’t particularly see or feel what he’s doing, he finds me an easy patient because there’s no real need for even local anaesthesia. The removed toenail is growing in nicely, perhaps as a positive consequence of all that milk I drink.