Chained to the Chair

Foot surgery

Four days in.  For the first time this morning, I hobbled around in "the shoe" without howling inducing pain exploding from my right foot. The good news is that in a mere six weeks, I'll be mended and walking again.  The bad news is, the left foot is next.  The root cause is a conspiratorial mix of genetics (my grandmother on my dad's side had the worst hammer toes ever) and my own flagrant behavior) and way too many  years walking, working and warring in heels when I should have worn sensible shoes.

These are not the first surgeries.  I've had toe knuckle arthritis scraped away, bone spurs sawed off and bunions dug out.  One podiatrist sought to cure my hammer toes by breaking them. That didn't work so well.  Just made my feet more uncommonly unattractive.  I should have resisted the idea when I  met him.  His name was Dr. Footer.

These new surgeries are certainly not the most serious, nor am I facing a life or death situation.  Why am I doing this to myself ?  the answer was simple. I looked at my feet and screamed "NO OLD LADY SHOES!" I can’t take it anymore!

But more than my vanity, it's about mobility and balance.  I've got a long history of careening across surfaces at random times.  Whether it's a stumble on a sidewalk, a slip on a wet leaf on a woody trail, or not looking where I'm running on a track, I'm not safe at any speed.  Can't seem to walk and chew gum at the same time.  And, as I get older, more than anything,  I fear losing my ability to walk, run, climb and generally maneuver my body at will.  The thought of living like a potted plant is beyond my imagination.

This latest round started when I went into a new podiatrist to get an elixir for a toe fungus left over from a year of boat living in a humid climate.  "No, problem," he said, quickly writing a script for it.  Then, wrinkling his forehead, he gazed upon my gnarly toes, shook his head and said, with a complete deadpan expression, "You know, we can fix these." 

I fell in love.