You will recall when I found out I had to have mastectomy surgery number 5 for the failed implant that I really wanted to wait until after swim season since I was doing daily physical therapy in a pool for my foot/ankle. Also, I had my summer vacation planned with a trip to the beach. I really wanted to go on that trip and not have water restrictions that come after surgery. So we got the surgery scheduled for early October and decided to finish out the summer and my beach trip intact, sagging boob and all, before scheduling the surgery. That plan was going perfectly well until I started noticing my foot was not only not improving despite multiple interventions but actually was becoming more constant and severe. I had experienced exactly 1 pain free day in 4 months, and this past week I had several days where I was moved to tears by the time I not so gracefully, just shy of face planting, hobbled my way to bed. On a few occasions, no less than five, I woke up in the middle of the night for a bladder piddle and slammed myself into the door frame to keep myself upright. I decided this could go on no more and me retain any sanity on the other end.
Schedule an MRI. Wait 3 hours for results. Land myself back at the orthopedic office the following day to get steroids injected into the interior side of my heel (and let me complain that I didn't even get a sticker or lollipop). Splints to wear while sleeping followed by the Provider pushing me to get a hard cast for the foot. While I was super excited to try absolutely anything to get me some relief. I was drawing the line at the cast. Step away from the spatula and Plaster of Paris, Woman!
I begged and pleaded explaining how I had successfully delayed imposter surgery for this beach trip and how I very much needed this trip to happen with me at least dipping my toes, if not a full submersion, in the tepid surf. She saw her reflection in the pools about to spill over from my lower lid and found herself guilted into not a plasterized masterpiece, but instead a sleek new booted accessory of black overlay with the subtle aroma of plastic undertone. We agreed I would wear it off and on while on my trip, but then commit to embracing it full-time at my return home. So I’m lugging this boot everywhere I go, currently sitting under the car dash next to a lone flip flop as we traverse the interstate. It’s excited to see the coast for the first time. I’m excited to get there so I can take it off and chunk it into the back seat. I haven’t told him as of yet that this is his fate. Our secret.
Disclaimer: I truly am thankful for the boot (and wearing it as much as possible) considering the alternative is a cast, and I’m even more grateful in that it gives this foot a full month to heal before I have the boob surgery because a bum foot and a bum boob at the same time will make me a little more frustrated than either alone.
As my boss said earlier today, “Sally, you have the best luck!” (and that most certainly is true, but who else can claim a boot that matches their beach chair - though admittedly black goes with anything). She’s absolutely right! I am a masterpiece of health ( hardly). A pure specimen of genetic perfection (not even close). My body celebrates change and transition with such frequency that the compass is in a constant spin. It has an uncanning ability to keep myself and those around me always guessing at current state. It would be an absolute marvel, if it weren't such a bummer.
Boots and Boobs. They seem to go hand in hand.
