Bootylicious

The orthopedist called me Monday and said, “Good news! You don’t have a stress fracture… but you do have an inflamed plantar fascia, achilles tendon and [another tendon whose name I can’t remember.]”

I’m thinking that this guy and I have different definitions of “good news.”

Also, is it wrong of me to feel kindof proud of the fact that he was almost impressed?

I’m guessing that not having a stress fracture is probably a good thing. I can start taking the boot off every now and then. I can go see a physical therapist to cut down my recovery time. And it’s a good excuse to get foot massages. I guess my problem is, I’ve been dealing with this for almost 2 months now and I am just so ready to be done. I am fully aware of how lucky I am to know that there is a light at the end of this tunnel and that my foot will be fine (eventually). I’m not in a wheelchair, I will walk (and run!) again.

I can be fairly patient, but I’m starting to run out of it. The boot is hot. It’s itchy. It makes my hips and my back hurt. I have knots all the way down the entire left side of my body from walking unevenly. My foot smells so bad after a day with the boot on that dog gives me funny looks, as if to say “Rub some garbage on that thing, woman. It stinks!” I’m glad to know that my foot is going to start feeling better, but I can’t help but feel a little annoyed that I can’t get an appointment to see a physical therapist for another three weeks. The doctor was adamant that I not go out and start running again, and that’s all that I want to do right now!

He didn’t, however, forbid me to bike or use the rowing machine.

Guess what I’m going to do after work today?

Muahahahahaha.

Maybe I’d be a little less cranky about all of this if I could milk my invalid status for all it’s worth. I suppose it should be nice to lie down on the couch while Kristian vacuums and does the laundry. But, between the internets and me, it mostly just makes me feel guilty. Besides, what good is it to lounge around when he steadfastly refuses to peel my grapes for me? Oh, the huge manatee.

I’ve found that most people are really good at staring at my boot like it’s a visible sign of extremely contagious and deadly leprosy and not so good at doing things like, oh, I don’t know…. offering me a seat. On places like a crowded subway train. When I’m visibly having a hard time standing up with a giant fucking rocker on one foot. I’m not bitter, no sirree.

Oh wait.

I’m totally bitter.

I was on the Green Line the other day and, not only did nobody offer me a seat, one (finally!) opened up and some chick stole it from me as I was hobbling over to it! I wish that I had confronted her, but I was just so shocked that all I could do was stand there like an idiot while I inwardly seethed. Someone else (someone with a soul!) offered me a seat, which was much appreciated as I was in a considerable amount of pain at that point. As I was getting off the train, I saw that seat-thief had been displaced. By a women who is obviously undergoing chemotherapy right now. I’d like to think that she spontaneously grew a conscience, but it’s much more likely that the woman with cancer is just better about standing up for herself than I am.

Between my foot, a couple cavities and the gum surgery that I need in a couple of weeks, I’m starting to feel like all I ever do is go to various doctors’ offices. If this is what it’s like to get old, I sincerely hope that the medical profession starts upgrading its waiting room reading material.

Oh well, I’ve spent all of today boot-free and I haven’t had any pain. And things can only get better from here on out!