I went to physical therapy yesterday. I’ve gone twice now. I spend time having my foot massaged (ahhh…), then I do some exercises. Lastly, my foot is wrapped in a warm, wet towel and then hooked up to electrodes. I get buzzed, literally.
Yesterday’s appointment was a bit different. The first appointment clocked in at 90 minutes. Since I go on my lunch hour, I needed to curtail it a bit. No 40-minute foot massage, thanks. Let’s get crack-a-lackin’.
But my foot still hurt. Bobbie, the gray, infamous cyborg-Storm Trooper boot, started to hurt me. The ball of my foot, where most of the pain resides, kept hitting the insole of the boot in a hard spot, causing more pain. That shouldn’t be the case.
Taylor, physical therapist and skateboarder, cornered Dr. B. as he returned from lunch. I told Dr. B. about the pain. He cautioned me against tightening the boot too much across my instep. Okay. I spend about 90% of my time loosening and adjusting that foul piece of Velcro. Haven’t found the sweet spot yet.
“Hmm,” Dr. B. said, looking at my foot. “We might try a post-op shoe for you. That might even out the pressure. Or we could put a lift inside your boot to keep you from striding on your forefoot. Let’s get the shoe.”
My favorite surly medical assistant appeared with black sandalesque shoes for me. See above. She looked at my foot, then at her two plastic-encased choices. She chose the smaller one. She tore it open and I placed my foot inside. She tightened the straps.
I took a few tentative steps around the rubber-floored room. Harder inside than the boot, my foot hit flat. Hmm. Then the strap came undone. The assistant showed me how modular the clasps were. I battened down the hatches and tried again. It was…okay.
“Your foot is tiny,” she said.
Yep. It is. In some cultures, it would be a sign of great beauty. Here, it’s just difficult to fit. I strode around some more. The black Velcro jobbie seemed surfer-cum-convalescent home, something a Wilson brother would wear. I immediately named it Wally. Not that any of them are, or ever were, named Wally. And not this guy, either.
Folks, I am tired of my foot hurting. I can’t seem to get any traction on healing. I’ve been told several times that I walk fast in the boot. I’m sure Wally will get the same treatment. I walk fast because I grew up with tall people. I have the short legs, hence the faster stride. Just because I walk fast doesn’t mean it is painless. I figured I might as well get there as quickly as possible, pain or no pain.
I’m learning patience, one of those fruits of the Spirit. How do I know? Let me count the ways.
Inevitably, every time I get on the highway heading to or from work, I’m stuck behind someone from the ADA: the Anti-Destination Association. They poke along, at or below the speed limit, in the left lane. I try not to grind my teeth. Work is poking along as well. I could use more projects. I spend an inordinate amount of time backing people up who are absent. And so on. It seems like most areas of my life are in a stalemate of sorts.
God is not very subtle sometimes. I hear Him in this season. I can’t run, which is a physical slow down. I can’t create work for myself. Those are two big areas where I have to wait for things to change. I’m trying. Some would say I’m very trying.
So…I’m waiting. Good things come to those who wait. Right? The Bible contains many scriptures about waiting.
Psalm 46:10 – Be still and know that I am God.
Psalm 27:14 – Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous.
Yes, wait patiently for the Lord.
Isaiah 40:31 – But those who wait on the Lord will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.
I’m looking for strength today and doing a LOT of walking. He will sustain me.
Meanwhile, Wally might need some bedazzling.