Leaving Bobbie

Bobby Brady


(Not this Bobby.)

Today, I visited the illustrious Dr. B. again, foot whisperer. This was the follow-up on the boot-wearing stint.

“How’s the pain?” he asked, post removal of socks and shoes and new X-rays.

“It’s good.”

“How much better?” His icy blue eyes bored into mine.

“Um…I’d say 90%.”

Whew! It’s true. The boot has helped tremendously. I’ve struggled to find regular shoes that are the same height. I usually end up a bit peg-legged, listing from side to side. Side note: I should mention here that I named the boot. Yep. Right away. Because I didn’t know how long we would be wedded. I called her Bobbie., but didn’t really broadcast it. I mean, I didn’t want people to think I was *weird* or something. Too late, I reckon. Anyway.  Yes, it’s a she. And you have to say it like Paul McCartney would say it. Which makes it sound like the boot is a British police officer.

But I digress.

Dr. B. gave me the good news: I can start weaning myself off the boot. I can wear regular, supportive shoes, one hour a day, then add an extra hour a day over time.

He was practically out the door and onto his next patient when I squeaked out one more question.

“What about physical therapy? I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow.”

That was a hot topic last visit. I was told it would take 6-8 weeks, two visits per week, in order to get back into good shape.

“Oh, right.” He thought for a moment, brow furrowed. Did I hallucinate that? Wait, the clinic called me to schedule. So…no.

“It’d be good for you to have one or two visits”, Dr. B. replied.

“You can pick up some exercises and stretch your calves. Your tight calves put a lot of pressure on your forefoot.”

Again with the poor calves. They’re to blame for everything, it seems.

I practically danced out of the office. I didn’t want to appear unseemly or ungrateful, so I didn’t. I’m excited to find out the next steps (literally) and get back to running. Not going to push it, but still. Hope lives.

Bobbie, yer days are numbered. Huzzah!