Das Boot

So…this happened.


I went back to Dr. B. I had more pain in my right foot, in a new spot. He gave me another shot. It didn’t take. My foot continued to hurt. Hence the follow-up visit two days ago.

“Hmm,” he said, bending my toes this way and that. He pressed down just above the last 3 toes.

“Ouch!” I squealed.

“I think you have a stress reaction.”

This, after the new X-ray he took revealed no stress fractures.

I must admit I thought he was making terms up. Stress reaction? Like, to bad news or a sudden chapter test on Friday? Possibly a sudden acne eruption? No. It’s when you have a reaction due to an overuse injury or something.  It doesn’t show on an X-ray, but the pain is real.

The tech unpacked it from the plastic. She put it on my foot. She showed me the weird knobs on the side that pump up and make it tighter. Okay. Like Air Jordans, Stormtrooper style.

They seem to only come in gray. No red or pink or purple. I stepped into the boot. It came halfway up my ankle, cradling it in fleecy softness on the inside. My toes poked out the end. Good thing rainy season is over. I suppose I could cover the end with a plastic bag. That wouldn’t be too ghetto, right?

“You can’t drive in it,” she told me.

“How will I get home?” I asked. Then…duh. Of course I wore two shoes there. I took off the boot and put on the regular shoe. I am Mr. Rogers’ evil twin. Or perhaps half-twin.

I got back to work, none too pleased at a longer time to wait before I can run again, or even really walk. Keep in mind I received no instruction on what to do except wear it. Or not, in the case of driving.

I gimped my way to the office from the spleen lot. It’s where all the cool kids park. As soon as I got inside, the questions and comments started.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, that’s a baby boot!”

Ugh. Baby boot?!

I felt so discouraged. My foot is encased in a gray plastic cage. I can’t take walks anymore. At least, I shouldn’t. Everything feels a wee bit more difficult. My foot still hurts. So. I have this boot to wear for 2 weeks. We all hope it helps. Some of us are even praying.

Meanwhile, I’m remembering to be grateful I can still walk at all. I’m learning to extend grace to myself. That, dear friends, is a tall order. Also, I pretend I’m a pirate with a wooden leg, sans parrot. I tell people I hurt it while ballroom dancing. I show people exactly how sexy it is.

They’re all totally jealous. They just hide it well.