I’m putting off working on work to to write about my veins. Yes, veins. Those nasty little (and big) things I inherited from my dad. Why, in my mid 20s, do they pop up? Spider veins on my right calf and and bulging ones on the back of my left calf. At the gym the other day, I examined other people’s legs looking healthy on the ellipticals. They are clean and white, and vein-free. Am I really jealous of other people’s visibly, vein-free legs? Oh, well. I’m signed up for some type of injection for my right front calf, and a surgery involving tweezers to remove my (hot!) blue varicose veins on my left calf. The doctor is literally going to pluck out those mysterious boogers. I mean, I haven’t been pregnant (obviously) and haven’t done any excessive lifting, sitting, or standing over the course of my life. So why do I have weird leakage problems this year and not last year? Maybe Karma. I’ve determined it’s pay back from when my dentist told me the other day my wisdom teeth never have to be taken out.
For my first vein consultation, I freaked out when the doctor told me I would experience an “impressive” amount of vein popping/vein display when I become preggers (in the very far future, to make that clear) even after sporting attractive support panty hose. And even after receiving treatments. “It’s a preventative and progressive thing,” she says.
My support stockings.
Did I mention I must wear support socks? This means no more shorts for a very long time, even six weeks after surgery. (That’s when the injections would cause sun stains to the affected area.) So at the gym, I must wear long spandex, putting my poor legs through unnecessary sweat and heat. Shorts, shorts, oh, shorts. I will miss you, my dear polka-dotted Nike running shorts! Sigh. And no way Jose will I wear those
tall knee-high socks out in the open! Thank goodness it’s still legging season. And they cost a whopping $75 through some kind of prescription. Really. Really?
“Do you want white or black?” the desk lady says.
“Neither,” I say, finally going with the white.
“Wait, do you offer them in brown?” I say.
“No.”
“Remember to wear these all the time except when you go to bed,” she says.
“Lovely,” I say.
Keep in mind, insurance won’t cover any vein operations until you’ve worn support socks for at least 16 weeks. Yes, that long. Supposedly, during this time, my veins could magically shrink. Wouldn’t that be nice?
It all started one morning, about 2 months ago, when I woke up to a panic attack resulting from staring at the blue lines up and down my legs – from thighs to calves. Talk about mapping out my entire nervous system from one road to another. Yuck. Their appearance would come and go throughout the day. Then I experienced leg cramps, and convinced myself I had a blood clot. Hello, Serena Williams! Yes, I had a blood clot. Note to self, Miss Hypochondriac: You do not, and never had a blood clot. Well, maybe after this surgery. OK. So that’s when I scheduled an appointment with the vein center.
