Call me vain (pun intended), but I decided to get, what felt like a hundred, spider veins, removed, last week. Of course, I didn’t have one hundred, not that I counted, but when your getting a shot for every inch of vein, well, whether it’s fifty, or one hundred, it doesn’t really matter. It still hurts like a mother f#*&er.
At least, it hurts until it stops hurting because it hurts so much. Sort of like being snapped with a rubber band or pinched. I went from ok, I can take this, to ok, this is starting to hurt, to, ok, my leg is now numb from the pain. And, then, the doctor moved to a new spot.
It was lovely.
Two days in, and my legs now are a little achey and littered with dark bruises. Of course, you can only see them when I take off the support hose, which are no joke. They recommend that you put them on while wearing rubber gloves, that’s how tight they are.
I am wearing support hose, not on the recommendation of my doctor, who seemed rather unimpressed by the whole compression wear thing. Wear them, don’t wear them, frankly he really didn’t care. Nor did he care that he answered his boss’s text while wearing the same gloves he was wearing to give me injections. Let’s hope he’s not taking his iPhone into the bathroom like the rest of America.
In fact, his whole attitude could be summed up as apathetic (or unknowledgeable), considering that he turned to me in the beginning and said, “How do you want to do this? Right to left?”
I looked at him and said, “You’re asking me?”
He said, “Not really, I was asking her [medical assistant].”
I told him, “I’m going to need a little more confidence from you.” I wasn’t joking.
It was all over in about an hour. He said see you in a month.
I asked, again, about the compression stockings, and again, he gave me the whatever attitude. Not until he left the room, did I think to ask the MA about exercising, to which she responded that I could resume in a few days. What’s a few? I pressed. She was noncommittal.
Then, as if almost as an after thought, she said, “And no swimming pools.”
I won’t bore you with the whole how long dance, because it was a complete repeat of the exercise conversation.
I left feeling unsure, and wrapped in bandages that were only applied after I said, “That’s it? You’re not going to cover my legs?” that had just been pricked about hundred times.
That night, I got home and started researching the whole pool, exercise, and compression thing. Pretty much EVERYONE recommends wearing compression hose after sclerotherapy. Oh, and there were a few more recommendations, like immediately taking a brisk walk, not bathing or being in a pool for five days, no hot showers, and my favorite, no sun on your legs, of lengths varying from 3-6 weeks, depending on who you asked.
Are you kidding me? It’s almost summer. As a mom of three kids, there is no avoiding the sun.
The worst part of all my research, things could look this bad from anywhere between 4-16 weeks.
I’m thinking the doctor maybe should of mentioned this to me when I had my consultation and asked about the recovery.
So, the treatment I endured, so that my legs would look decent this summer, is looking like it’s going to result in my legs looking much worse this year. Is that ironic? Because it sure feels like irony to me. By my estimates they should look better just in time for corduroy.
I’m hoping that everything I read on the Internet is an exaggeration and that my U of P educated, Duke trained vascular surgeon that I paid cash (insurance doesn’t cover vanity) to rid me of my spider veins, knows better (and I bet you thought I went to some rinky dink medspa).
I’ll keep you posted.