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Gotta love the VA

So for the past ten days my knee has been bugging me,  which is fairly concerning because my knees are two of the few body parts I haven't yet broken.  Or otherwise injured. 


On the Army (and ballet) theory that everything is just a strain,  I gritted my teeth for a week,  because if it's not bleeding,  it must be a sprain,  right?  And the whole time,  I'm limping up and down the stairs,  cleaning litter boxes, getting in the middle of projects. Saturday,  though,  it got bad enough that I tried to talk the VA into permitting an ER visit to a hospital that was closer than the VA.  Nope,  none of that.  


Yesterday,  I coukdn't walk.  The leg wouldn't support me at all,  so I wound up crawling downstairs to feed the cats.  Then I called 911.  


I was at the ER eight hours.  They did X-rays, a sonogram,  but apparently MRIs are only for visiting royalty.  They gave me an ace bandage,  some tylenol,  and some crutches. 


Within two hours of arriving home,  as I came back downstairs, something went SNAP in my knee very loudly,  and I woild up screaming in pain for ten minutes.  It took me twenty minutes to cross thirty feet because the whole leg was sickeningly painful----you know,  the kind of pain where you can tell something is wrong.  


Back to the ER. 


The nurses looked startled when I came back with the paramedics. 


This time they gave me an injection,  still no MRI,  and still no diagnosis.  One $50 cab ride later (including a tip for the sweet Somali driver,  who was BEYOND lovely----and liveral) I staggered home in a thigh-high knee brace.


If they fight the ambulance bill,  it's time for tactical nukes.