First off, don’t panic! It wasn’t an emergency surgery. As much as I felt like it was an emergency, it was not life or death.
Some time in the Spring of 2021, I managed to injure my left foot. It just kinda started to hurt. Then it got worse. I had an x-ray done, nothing was broken so the doctor just told me to take some ibuprofen and ice it.
So I did.
A couple months went by, and it didn’t feel better so I saw my doctor about it and she said I should see a podiatrist. So I did. She was awesome too, said more than likely I had some tendonitis going on, put me in a walking boot to rest it. Gave it a good 6 weeks, but that wasn’t much help. Physical therapy! Gave that a good go, but it didn’t help either.
MRI? Barely knew her!!
MRI showed something was off, but it wasn’t clear enough to say one way or another what it was. Doctor recommended surgery to take a look and fix what was happening. I was happy to say yes, by this point it was the end of October and I hated my boot. I also hated the pain that came with moving on with my life and trying to get stuff done. It wasn’t that I was excited about having surgery, I was excited to fix it and keep moving forward. But guess what? I have a good doctor who was completely booked up until the end of January. JANUARY? What the absolute hell?! I felt completely defeated. But I scheduled it.
Surgery day was close, I had my pre-op appointment, I bought a shower seat and a cast cover so I could stay clean. I had my craft projects lined up. I was ready to go! The Monday before my surgery, Rhonda and I had a wonderful night at our local watering hole. Visited with friends, had drinks and snacks, actually winning money at the video slots!
Thursday before rolls around, I go in for my Covid test. Find out later that night that one of the friends I briefly hugged had tested positive. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck. Two days of worrying, messages back and forth: when were you exposed? When did you test positive, are you symptomatic? Meanwhile, I’m quarantined for the weekend until my surgery. Which I hope to God is still on pending my results.
Wake up Saturday morning to results:
NEGATIVE!
Holy shit, thank you dear Lord Baby Jesus! The surgery is ON! The weekend after that was uneventful, just tried to get laundry and dishes done and ready for me to be out of commission for a few weeks.
Surgery came and went, doctor found that my peronial tendon was flattened and had a lot of inflammation around it. She cleaned it up and made it look like it was suppose to and sent me home with a ginormous cast/splint on my leg.
Now since my story to this point has taken forever, I’m gonna make the rest of it short.
In bed, foot propped up above the level of my heart. Too painful to move from room to room, takes too much time to get ready to move and then actually get there. Too stubborn to ask for help but knowing full well that I need the help. Every meal, every drink of water. Every cup of coffee or tea, and every bathroom trip thereafter. I needed help. Bedside commode? Yes, thank you. Depending on someone else to have to dispose of the liner and contents? Humiliating. The person doing it letting me know they love me and I shouldn’t be humiliated or upset?
Priceless.
