The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 10: Bye Bye Bootie

After a month of step-clomping around town, it was time to return to Dr. Z to reassess my stress fracture situation. Tootsie and I arrived at the doctor's office feeling fairly apprehensive. Or rather, I was apprehensive. Tootsie remained nonchalant.

Dr. Z took updated x-rays of my left foot. Had Tootsie done her job? Was the fracture healed? Dr. Z reviewed the films while I waited, nervously, for the verdict.

When he told me that the x-rays showed evidence of bone callouses, I inwardly groaned. More bad news!? Crap.

But no - wait - turns out that bone callouses are a good thing! Evidence of healing! I'm on the mend!

Dr. Z then said the sweetest words to me: "I think you can stop wearing the boot now." Oh, I could have kissed him. I didn't, of course. But I could have, so happy was I to hear those magical words. Bye bye, bootie!

I'm in the midst of a two-week trial run of boot-free living. At the end of two weeks, I'll return to the doctor for another reassessment. Hopefully all will continue to be well. If I continue to have pain and swelling, Tootsie may have to resume her immobility duties temporarily.

But I'm hoping it doesn't come to that. I'm ready to be rid of her. Quite frankly, the boot's become like a bad houseguest: she's overstayed her welcome and she's starting to smell.

Wish us luck on our trial separation! So far, it's agreeing with me. I can't speak for Tootsie, though; I shoved her under a far corner of my bed and haven't seen her in awhile. (Now, don't you go feeling sorry for her - she has plenty of dust bunnies to keep her company.)

My footsie in Central Park: Now Tootsie- and fancy-free!

[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 9: Brighton Beach Boot Memoir

Street corner scene on Brighton Beach Ave.

My employer (for reasons best understood by them, and not at all by me) decided to decree a few forced vacation days for our firm this summer. That is, they picked several days around Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day and told us that we had to take these days off. Not that we get them off - these aren't freebie vacay days. We have to take them off; they're deducted from our (already small) pool of personal time.

Well. Well? Well. Whaddya going to do?

What I did, when this latest forced day o' fun rolled around, was take Tootsie to the beach.

Tootsie's Day in the Sun

We gimped down together to Brighton Beach, an easy train ride away. Board the subway in Manhattan, and disembark about an hour later in Russia. Or at least it feels like Russia.

Many of the store signs are printed in Russian, and much of the business being conducted around you plays out in Russian. There is no shortage of stores and stalls selling Russian vodka and caviar. There is a fur coat store. A Russian-language book store. There are sweet-looking Russian ladies camped out on stoops in folding chairs, chatting up their neighbors.

And then there are the Russian pastries. Oh, the pastries. Tootsie and I headed straight for my favorite Russian bakery and picked up some supplies. A quick stop for an iced coffee, and then we continued on to the beach.

We set up camp near some teenagers who were blasting Russian house music from a boom box, just to the left of an older couple who didn't seem to feel that their advanced years should preclude them from wearing bikinis/speedos. A gang of middle-schoolers loitered nearby, making idle threats to one another. Some Brooklyn hipsters showed up with a French bulldog, and set about trying to look bored and cool. A guy with a cart walked up and down the beach shouting & selling, "Water! Pepsi's! Ice-cold Corona's!"

Brooklyn's "Little Odessa" may not be the classiest of joints, but like I said - it's just an easy train ride away.

And did I mention the pastries?? Yeah, Brighton Beach has its benefits.

Tootsie, for her part, seemed to enjoy the outing. I briefly considered hurling her into the sea, but in the end I let her come home with me. I know she's here for my own good; Dr. Z insisted upon that fact. Still, I can't help but hope that by the time my next forced vacation day rolls around in September, Tootsie will be but a distant, dim memory...


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 8: Boo(t) Radley




[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles

Episode 7: Boot Sisters

Friendly Feets:

BANaNAs, Jolene & I pedi-posed on Martha's Vineyard last month

Today is the two-week anniversary of my reluctant alliance with Tootsie, the Surgical Boot. Two weeks down, and (hopefully) only two weeks more to go before my left foot can once again find freedom in flip-flops. There will be dancing on that happy day. Oh yes, there will be dancing.

Since I took up with my Tootsie, I've been seeing plenty of gals limping around the city with Tootsies of their very own. When Dr. Z initially handed down my diagnosis, he revealed that I was his 3rd stress-fracture case that day. And it was only noon! So I knew I would not be alone: there were others out there, step-clomping through the city alongside me.

As I slowly made my way to the subway that evening, I saw two women with boots. One of them had a cane. This made me feel better. "See?" I pep-talked myself, "You're not alone. And at least you don't have a cane."

Later that night, boarding a Manhattan-bound 1-train leaving the Bronx, I sat down across from another booted girl. "Aha!" I thought, "We are everywhere."

Friends have joined in encouraging me this way, as well. "Just saw a girl with a boot," my friend Tiff texted me over the weekend, "You are not alone!"

This afternoon, on my way to the library and lunch, I rode the elevator with a co-worker who - noticing Tootsie - commented, "I've seen so many people with those boots lately!" Yup, I told her, we're out there.

Out in force, it seems. A stress-fractured limpy-gimpy force with which to be reckoned.

Still, I really want out of this club. Eyes on the prize - two more weeks!


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 6: Cowboy Boot




[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 5: The Boot, in Perspective

Tootsie considered taking to the bottle, but I talked
her out of it with a healthy dose of perspective.

You may have heard me mention (if only in brief passing) about a little stress fracture incident. Perhaps you're thinking, "Gee, Kristy, I sure wish you'd say more about that!" Really? Well, ok! If it's medical melodrama you're lookin' for, then it's medical melodrama I'll deliver...

You see, I used to dabble in hypochondria. During my second year of college, I requested a Merck Manual for Christmas. My mom was not thrilled with this gift choice, but my dad seemingly couldn't say 'no' to his only daughter. And so, on Christmas morning, I found a medical reference manual of my very own, wrapped in pretty paper under the tree.

Wouldn't you know it? Just a few days later, I contracted a staph infection!

My mom, a former nurse, tried to debunk my self-diagnosis but the Merck and I would not be dissuaded. I curled up under a blanket on the couch and took to moaning pitifully. From the other room I heard my mom mutter, "Sam, I told you not to get her that book!"

I won't bore you with a list of the other diseases & afflictions that the Merck subsequently helped me to identify. Needless to say, the list was lengthy and the diagnoses were mainly unsubstantiated by medical professionals and by my mother, who probably got quite tired of repeating the phrase, "You don't have [diabetes/encephalitis/black lung]."

Despite my paranoid convictions otherwise, I have actually always been fairly healthy.* Never had stitches, never broke a bone, never required a hospital stay. My only forays into the E.R. were when I escorted friends and inebriated college roommates there to play out their own medical dramas.

All things considered, this body has held up pretty well for thirty-one years. I'm trying to keep that perspective in mind. Makes it difficult to bemoan my current stress fracture incident too too much, eh?


*There was that short-lived brain tumor scare of '07, but that turned out to be (in the words of my zany neurologist, Dr. S) merely "unresolved internal conflict." Oh, ok. Phew.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp ChroniclesEpisode 4: The Art of Bootraction

Here's a Monday afternoon question for you: What if - rather than receiving it as a sign of bad luck - we instead viewed my boot as a good luck charm?

(Also, what if - for the sake of this blog post - we pretend that I believe in luck. Which I don't. Not really.)

This weekend I tried to remain mindful of the good things that came my way as a result of being strapped to Tootsie. It's easy to maintain a laundry list of all the ways that the boot is annoying. It's also doable to keep reminding myself that the boot is not so so terribly bad - well, it's not the end of the world, anyhow.

But could it actually be a bearer of good things in my life? Let's see...

Cyn stopped by on Saturday to bring me these lovely "Sorry You Have A Stress Fracture" flowers... Good thing #1.

Then we ventured over to Cafe Frida for dinner, drinks, and this yummy dessert. (Kiddos, you gotta trust me that Flaming Plantano Macho tastes much much much better than it looks!) While we were finishing our meal, two people left the restaurant and paused on the sidewalk outside the window opposite us. One of those people was Anne Hathaway, presumably grabbing a quick bite before heading to work. Celeb sighting! Totally a case of bootraction. Good thing #2.

Since neither of us were heading to work, Cyn and I accepted our waiter's offer of a little after-dinner cognac on the house.

Yum. Free cognac. Good thing #3.

Later I hobbled down a few blocks to CJL's birthday party, where I ended up sitting next to a girl whose story I needed to hear, right then and there. Totally a shot of hope for my heart.

Call it Bootraction, call it karma, call it kismet, call it coincidence, call it what you will. I kinda wanna believe that it's maybe God's way of pulling me up by my bootstraps so that I can start to see the light again.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 3: Pirate Booty

The boot does its job by immobilizing my left foot. Because I can no longer roll that foot, my gait becomes awkward and slow. I get very little forward propulsion from my left leg now; my right leg is doing most of the work and the left leg comes clomping behind it.

As I get used to walking this way, I'm still trying to determine the most efficient way to move. Does it help to try to open my stride? Or is it better to take shorter steps? Should I be bending my knees more or less? Can I employ any of my figure skating skillz to help me here? (The answer to that last question is - of course - "no," but I always like to ask that in whatever situation I happen to be in.)

In addition to the ease-of-movement dilemma, I am also concerned with how my new walk looks. Vain, I know, but I can't help but be a little concernced that stilted clomping is just not how a girl goes about bringing sexy back. So I'm thinking about throwing in a little wiggle-waggle, toe-point, hip-sashay to class up the clomp, step, clomp, step routine.

Further, I've become aware that my new walk looks not entirely unlike how you might imagine a peg-legged person moving. Step, clomp, step, clomp, repeat. And I'm reminded of all the times I've callously told people that I was pretty sure my ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg. (Just this week, in fact, I told a friend that I was certain her ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg, too!) Not cool, Kristy. Having a peg-leg is a serious hindrance. I can see that now. I repent of my peg-leg insinuating ways.

See how this booty experience is already making me all sensitive and compassionate 'n stuff? I think it's a step-clomp in the right direction.


[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 2: Boot-ros Boot-ros, Golly!

After Dr. Z gave me the boot, I hobbled out of his office and limped east. My gait was awkward and halting. At this pace it seemed like it would take me forever and a day to get back to my office, so I reckoned I had time to make a few phone calls.

First I called MadDawg, because that girl knows a thing or two about getting the boot, having worn one herself fairly recently. Next up, I dialed my mother and told her my stress-fracture news. Still focused on my extreme self-consciousness about wearing the bulky boot, I was whiny and looking for sympathy.

“Are you getting enough calcium?” my mother asked.
“I eat a lot of yogurt,” I offered.
“Ok, what else?”
“Um…turkey sandwiches?”
“You really need to make sure you’re getting enough calcium.”

Right-o. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I heard her say that it’s medically necessary for me to start consuming a lot of ice cream. Finally – some science I can get behind.

“Sorry to tell you, kid, but you’ve got my feet.”

Well, I figured as much. Each passing year brings greater awareness that I am my mother’s daughter – I’ve inherited her green eyes, her tendency to cry during sappy movies/dog food commercials, her dislike of Neil Young, and now – her fracture-prone feet.

“Maaaahhhmm!” I whined, “What am I going to do? This boot slows me down! I walk everywhere – it’s going to take me forEVER to get places!”

“You can milk this thing,” she advised, “Get help. Get people to give you rides.”

“This is New York City, Mom. No one has cars. The only people who are going to give me rides are cab drivers, and I’ll have to pay them.”

“Well, aren’t there services for the disabled?”

“I’m not disabled!” I shrieked into the phone.

The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. I took some deep breaths and let my mom try to pep-talk me back to an even keel. After we hung up, I continued the pep-talk with myself. I reminded myself of all the ways that the boot did not represent the end of the world. I reminded myself of the blessings I could identify in this situation. I thought of bigger things & grand schemes, which made this seem like a minor little stumbling block. And I reminded myself that awkwardness and embarrassing situations make great writing material, and I resolved to spill out the details here on the ol’ bloggy-blog.

And whaddya know? Me and the boot (who I’m thinking of naming “Tootsie”) went on to scale great heights that day…

The boot and I conquered 120 steps in the Bronx. How do ya like that, Dr. Z?!

[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]

The Gimp Chronicles
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.

Get your own here!

"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.

To be continued...

[Read the rest of the Gimp Chronicles here.]