Operation, my foot!

I like to think I’m known for my superb planning, my logical thinking and my practical timing in life. Whenever I make a move, I consider the ramifications and, ideally, the easiest course.

For the most part, my philosophy has worked. I can’t remember when something I’ve planned and worked toward has fallen apart.

Until recently that is.  Technically, I can’t call my bunionectomy a complete catastrophe. According to the surgeon, it’s a success.  It is, however, Christmas, and at a time I want to hustle and bustle, I’m finding an operation on my foot rather inconvenient.

It all started, for those of you wearing those gorgeous stilletos, back in my twenties. Oh, man, I was stylin’ wearing those six-inch heels. Unbelievably, I paid a fortune for those shoes which unbeknownst to me were destroying my feet.

Well,  the time came when the cortisone injections become more frequent and the shoes got lower and lower and wider and wider and the doc said…we gotta fix this.

Meaning? I asked.

Meaning, you need to have surgery, and it’s not your typical bunionectomy. We want to put screws in your foot that will prevent the bunion from spreading in that wayward direction again. 

Several friends had had the procedure, and after they swore up and down that they’d do it again, I relented.  What made my procedure different than theirs, however, was that I wouldn’t be able to put any weight on said foot for for a period of six to eight weeks.  Definitely not part of the plan!

On December 4th, I went under the knife.  I was supposed to come home with a novacaine block so that I wouldn’t feel the pain for twenty-four to thirty-six hours.  On day two, let me assure you, I felt every ounce of that pain.  I would learn on Thursday, my veins wouldn’t cooperate, and they elected to not send me home with the block. (Another curve in the road).

The good news was the x-rays showed a successful procedure, and they put me in a cast.  By Friday I was off all pain medication except Advil.  I still had crutches though and learned quickly that my middle name is not Grace.  After falling three times, with a bruise the size of Texas on my behind, my darling husband went off to Denver and got me a rolling-aid scooter.  This is a machine that enables you to bend your bad leg on a cushion and scoot with your good leg.  What a godsend!

As I write this I’m on Day number 8 and I have a long road ahead of me.  On December 31st, the “plan” is to go back for x-rays and come home in a walking cast.  I can’t tell you how much I hope I can put weight on that foot by that time.  But the fact is my surgeon has made no promises and there’s no way I can plan my way out of this situation. 

 I’m having to accept that my recovery time might be Dec. 31st or weeks afterward.  I’m having to accept that the bed might not be made or the plants go unwatered or my tree isn’t decorated to my exact specifications.–I’m actually learning to have a little patience and to go with the flow.  

Sometimes the plan is to let nature — and healing–take its course.  Though this might seem like forever, it’s temporary.  And to have my husband and family ready and willing to put up with me… well now, that’s not something I could have planned for, it’s a blessing. 

Wishing you all a wonderful two-footed holiday!