Episode 1: Getting the Boot
Two weeks ago, my foot started to hurt. This was not terribly unusual. My feet often hurt - I walk a lot, and the cutest shoes are (alas) not always the most supportive shoes, so sometimes I end up walking a lot in less-than-comfortable footwear. C'est la NYC vie.
I waited a week to see if the pain would go away on its own. It didn't. In fact, it got worse. In fact, at one point last Wednesday, I thought I might maybe pass out from said pain. I didn't (luckily). Instead, I made a doctors appointment.
It took a full week before I could get in to see anyone. Who knew podiatrists were so popular? Finally the day of my appointment rolled around, and after a quick examination and several x-rays, Dr. Z delivered some unhappy news:
I had a stress fracture.
Well, that didn't sound good. Although at least the diagnosis gave my pain some legitimacy. I wasn't whining about nothing - my foot was near broke! I asked the good doctor how one gets a stress fracture.
"Good question," he said. (Why, thank you, Doctor.)
Apparently most stress fractures occur in people who frequently run long distances (ex./ marathon runners) and those who engage in strenuous marches (ex./soldiers). I assured him I did not fit either category. He indicated that the bone structure of my foot was probably to blame because yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah.
As you can see, I kinda missed the rest of that explanation. I was a bit too caught up in what followed, as Dr. Z went on to explain that the treatment for stress fractures involves wearing a surgical boot for one month. Immediately I regressed to adolescence.
"I don't wanna wear a boot! I'll be different! Everyone will laugh at me! I'll die of embarrassment! I'll die alone!" I thought, with every bit of overwrought anguish and melodrama that one might expect from a teenager who has been told that she has to wear braces for five years, a sentence she is sure will spell out certain social pariah-dom and a prom-date-less existence from which she will never, ever, no not ever recover.
Sigh.
Big sigh.
Double sigh.
But there was no arguing with - nor appealing to the sympathies of - the x-ray displayed before me. The diagnosis was black & white (bone = black, fracture = white). And so, resigned to my fate, I let Dr. Z outfit me with the dreaded boot.
But there was no arguing with - nor appealing to the sympathies of - the x-ray displayed before me. The diagnosis was black & white (bone = black, fracture = white). And so, resigned to my fate, I let Dr. Z outfit me with the dreaded boot.
To be continued...
[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]
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