Resolutely I Hobble

I’ve spent the last six months being afraid of the following: Running, Walking, Stairs, Ladders, Showers, Uneven sidewalks, and movement in general.

What I initially thought was a sprained ankle from jogging last June, turned out to be something more. Tarsal Coalition is the clinical name, but what it means is that two of the bones in my foot began to carry on an illicit relationship and formed a bond of connective tissue between them. So, why is that bad? Well, those bones are supposed to move, fluidly and in harmony with the other bones of the foot. But when those two formed their lusty connection, it created discord among the other bones of my left foot. Not to mention that it was painful.
Very painful.
Constantly painful.

It’s like having two friends in your personal circle of friends who start dating. And if that isn’t bad enough, they constantly remind you that they're dating. They do this by arguing, kissing, crying, shouting and generally changing everyone’s plans and insisting that you listen to one talk about the other unceasingly.
If I subjected you to a continuous source of pain like that, it would force your already occupied mind to pay attention to it, only it, and it would then threaten to take dominance over your life. It’s very similar to the sensation I experience while watching Disney Channel Sitcoms with my daughter. Don’t believe me? How many Hanna Montana products do you have in your house?

I would have been happy to let those two intimate bones in my foot carry on their crush outside of my body, and I'm sure I would've been quite content to start hanging out with a completely different set of feet, but that never worked out. So, I’ve had to learn just how much I previously enjoyed my own freedom, and how inconvenient it is to have that blessed liberty taken from me.

Mainly I missed running. And I’m not talking about marathons here; I mean just the short run it takes to avoid my wife’s very solid shoulder punches.
I couldn’t run across an intersection if a bus was bearing down on me.
I couldn’t catch our runaway puppy who likes to bolt out the front door as soon as he sees a two millimeter gap.
I couldn’t even run to the bathroom, and I found that I could no longer jog passed two houses on my way to the mailbox.

But, instead of complaining, I guess I should be fair, because the Tarsal Coalition did bring me one thing: A cane.

A friend at work, whom I will refer to as “Subordinate” said this to me: “It makes you look distinguished. Sort of like Hugh Laurie in House. Really, man- that cane works for you.”
So I beat him with it.

As he lay dying, I reminded Subordinate that jolly old Hugh Laurie can happily chuck the cane and run off for an abusive game of rugby whenever he bloody well feels like it. I however, had started parking closer to the door at work and home because I wanted to shield the world from my new "distinguished" three-legged walk, and, honestly, because the pain was driving me slightly insane. Besides, have you seen House? He’s a real happy guy, huh?

Speaking of doctors, the treatment for my condition involves taking a very long shiny needle and inserting it deep into the side of my foot and wiggling it around, randomly spewing steroids into the wound, in an effort to break up the connection between the two bones. But like splitting up those two annoying friends I used to hang out with, this will take time. Usually three injections spread out over a period of months.
So far, I’ve had two injections, and I’m very happy to report that I’ve gotten better.

So, here I am, six months after my original injury, and at the start of a new year. The cane (still covered in bits of Subordinate’s hair and skull fragments) is standing in a corner in my bedroom, and I am outside helping my daughter raise the seat on her bike because she got a new pair of long, slender legs for Christmas. At least I think she did, since that seat was just fine three months ago. After I make the adjustment, she starts to ride away, but her foot slips on the pedal and the bike spills her into the driveway. I’m by her side in an instant; helping her up, telling her its okay, and looking at the slivers of peeled-away skin on her leg. As we walk inside the house I step on the uneven threshold of the front door and I feel a sudden hot stab in my foot. Yes, it’s still there, but I just took three quick steps in the driveway and I didn’t even notice.
So, that is what I got for Christmas.
Three quick steps.

I’ll take it. In fact, now that I'm sitting here writing about it, I think it’s one of the best gifts ever.

By the way, Dr. Jason Miller, DPM, is the guy who figured out what was going on with my foot, and he’s the guy working on separating the two bones.
He’s like a podiatrist divorce attorney.

You know, I forgot to send him a Christmas card. Maybe I’ll jog down to the mailbox tonight and drop one in there for him.