Turns out, my foot doesn’t have a boney spur. And he’s not happy to see me. There will be no more bad foot injury jokes. That time has passed. This just sucks.
I am even more alien than we originally thought. Well, than *I* originally thought. I have a whole extra bone in my foot. Just hanging around. Not attached to anything or anyone. A little bone island if you will. A hermit bone. One that went all Unabomber and sliced up my tendon sheath. Whatever the hell that means. Beware of the Unabomber bone. He’ll cut a bitch.
The nice podiatrist (we can feel sorry for the poor fool who decided to deal with FEET for a living later. BACK TO ME) was as happy as could be as he waltzed into the room:
“Well, I’m sure you were told you broke your foot. But you didn’t!”
“I never thought I broke my foot. I was told I have a boney spur that was causing inflammation and to rest it. And then I was given this hot Velcro shoe bootie. Don’t be jealous.”
“Oh, no. Take a look here! You have a bonemetatarsaloxbonetendonsheathlubeinflammationpain.”
Or something like that. He definitely mentioned lube at one point. I know that much. Otherwise, I don’t speak podiatrist. I try as a general rule to avoid thinking about feet altogether. Unless I am picking out a nice shade of Essie at the nail salon.
The nice doctor told me my foot was a prime example of an anatomy lesson since you could see all my bones and tendons. Especially the affected tendon that was three times the normal size from inflammation. Oh goodie! The person who hates feet was told my feet are exemplary. Excuse me while I hurl. And the sad part? That was the best news I would be getting during this visit.
“Oh, I see. Yes.”
“So we’ll have to put you in a cast and give you crutches. You have to stay off the foot for 4 weeks.”
“Wait. Did you say you had a son at home?”
He decided to fit me for a walking boot/cast thingamabobber. That’s the official term, by the way. I’m quite positive I heard that correctly. And while he was doing this? The good doctor had the nerve to insult my blue velcro shoe bootie. He called it “worthless.” I could have slapped him in the face. NOBODY insults my velcro shoe bootie.
Then there was some more talk at the end, when I mentioned my Motrin 800 wasn’t doing much of anything at all for the pain and then kindly declined his sweet offer of Vicodin, about how there is a slight tiny minuscule possibility that I may have torn my tendon altogether, but that will be a conversation for another day three weeks from now when I get a follow up x-ray to assess the situation. Until then, it’s just me and the boot, 24/7. And a bag of ice. And Colin.
I should have taken the offer of Vicodin.