My new right foot: A fashion conundrum

I have graduated to shoes!

At my appointment last Wednesday, my foot guy gave me the all-clear to don the "loosest pair of shoes you have." I had just what the doctor ordered -- my well-worn Columbia dog-walking/snow-busting/dig-in-the-dirt/schlep-all-over-the-muddiest-parts-of-Manuel-Antonio-National-Park-in-Costa-Rica slip-on walking shoes. They're golden.

But herein lies the fashion conundrum. Because of their time-honored utility, the Columbias also are currently the ugliest shoes I have. And this does present some challenges when it comes to accessorization in the world of fashion.

There was something to be said for the surgical shoe. With its sleek lines, low profile and chameleon-like characteristics, you could possibly bust it out for almost any occasion.

It does goes well with jeans and a Keen walking shoe.

Throw a Keen sandal and a pair of clamdiggers into the mix, and you've got a nice summer vibe going.

Matched up with a kicky little patent leather Clark sandal, you could even carry off a skirt in the pinch. (I think I'd wear nylons, though. The combination of fading bruises and a lingering tinge of orange Betadine on my right foot is a little, shall we say, unusual right now.)

Alas, not so with the Columbias.

"The look" basically starts -- and stops -- with jeans. This about as good as it gets.

Because the wheels begin to come off with the clamdiggers.

And, frankly, there's absolutely no way you're going out the door in a skirt.

Indeed. It IS hard to be glamorous.

Ice-aholics not-so-anonymous

Hello. I'm the Queen and Supreme Goddess of Bermtopia. And I'm an ice-aholic.



The first warning signs of ice addiction emerged when I was a child. When we went to restaurants, I loved to fish the ice out of my Shirley Temple and crunch on it (well, after the maraschino cherry, that is). Ditto for water glasses. Drove my parents crazy.



As I grew older, it was "Would you like a little diet Coke with your ice?" And even today, as much as I love a good G & T during the summer, a good jolt of ice is just as important as the Bombay Sapphire.



For me, ice is the penultimate analgesic. I use it for all types of ailments. . . from oven-scorched knuckles to lower back pain, plus everything in between. (Don't even talk to me about moist heat. It's so over-rated. Well, unless you've got a sty. Then it works pretty well. Ice, not so much.)



Which brings me to my present state of addiction. Since my foot surgery March 25, I've basically been one large ice pack. It seems Nerve Central for your foot is based around the ankle. Apply ice to that sweet spot and you are pain free for hours, and I seriously mean hours.



BUT -- when the ice pack reaches room temperature, which usually occurs around 2 a.m. when the Wonderfully Patient Spouse is in a well-deserved-hard-earned-deep-sleep-that-I-don't-want-to-interrupt-over-the-frivolous-issue-of-a-warm-ice-pack, is another story.



I will go on record that I have a high threshold for pain. It's a Scandinavian thing. But what happens once the ice pack reaches room temperature isn't exactly pain. It's more like The Ultimate Annoyance -- persistent, forceful jabs of energy, like dozens of tiny jolts of electricity, laser-locked on the nerve endings in my foot. Pretty soon my foot is bouncing around the bed around like a possessed potato in an Ace wrap -- and I'm thinking Need. Ice. Must. Get. Ice.



I really don't want to wake up the WPS -- nor do I want to gnaw my foot off at the ankle just to get a good night's sleep. Therefore, I activate the time-honored Ice Addict Emergency Management Plan: I flip on the light and clunk down the hall to the bathroom.



Inevitably, this evokes a physiological sympathetic response in the WPS. (Seriously. This kind of stuff happens all the time afer 35 years of marriage.) Once he's completed his own midnight pit stop, he sticks his head in my room and says, "Need anything?"



"Oh, an ice pack, if one's handy."



I'm shameless. And I'm an ice-aholic.

My new right foot: Crutch walking

No, not a new Olympic sport. But it should be.

An update: I failed Crutches 101 spectacularly the week following my surgery. By spectacularly I mean my right -- surgical -- foot absolutely refused to obey any and all new neuro-instructions I sent it. Instructions like, No, you may NOT step on that step and No, you may NOT bear weight on your poor, pathetic stitched-up tippy-toes. As a result, we had many scenes of me, on crutches, rooted to the floor as my right foot peddled furiously in mid-air, trying to find some worthwhile job to do. It was not pretty.

Noting this failure as I flailed into my first follow-up appointment last week , Dr. T, the foot guy, did what any self-respecting foot guy would do: Introduced me to the wild and wacky world of crutch-walking. My right foot was much appreciative. It is now once again gainfully employed.

Once you get the hang of it, crutch-walking is pretty simple. Your two crutches and surgical foot kick out first, theoretically all at the same time. (The boys and I had to work on this for a couple of days.) Non-surgical foot brings up the rear as crutches and surgical foot, together, do some light weight-bearing. My over-achiever right foot is happy -- and it's definitely easier (and kinder on woodwork around the house) than wheeling around with my knee up on a walker.

There are, of course, some limitations. For one, you can't really carry anything since your hands are full of crutch handles. And occasionally, one crutch will snag up in the carpet, making for an interesting few seconds of see-sawing back and forth suspended between two stubborn sticks that each believe they have the territorial imperative.

Nevertheless, while I'm certainly not going to sneak up on anybody (fyi, old-school wooden crutches creak like the dickens), win a foot race or dominate the hammer throw, crutch-walking is definitely an improvement on Crutches 101.

Stowing your crutches, however, is another story. When you're on an ambulating roll, crutches work together like a well-primed machine. But, if I need to find a temporary home for them, my crutches are transformed into two energetic toddlers, slipping and sliding in different directions with little, if any, concern for my safety or convenience.

And, without fail, at least once or twice a day and without any provocation, my crutches will spontaneously slam to floor, sending Ben skittering out of the room with a guilty look on his face -- and prompting an "Are you all right up there?" from the Wonderfully Patient Spouse. (The first couple of times this happened, the WPS actually sprinted up the stairs to make sure I hadn't broken my neck -- or even worse, screwed up my foot surgery -- but now, except for Ben, we're all savvy to the crashing-crutches routine, hence the shout-out rather than First Responder mode.)

All in all, I'm much happier crutch-walking. And I'll be looking for it at 2012 Summer Olympics.

My new right foot: Ben

We've completed Week One of "My New Right Foot" and I think we've gotten the routine down.

Well, everyone except Ben. Simply put, he is mystified by this strange turn of events that has me home 24/7 but completely useless when it comes to walks, working in the backyard and fetching treats.

He IS a happy camper that someone is home all day who's not opposed to sharing a futon and down comforter with him. BUT the walk thing has him completely and unequivocably flummoxed. To whit:

It's no secret the dog knows how to tell time. Like sunrise, he stirs about 6:30 a.m. each morning and is standing at attention at the side of my bed at 7 -- the time we normally leave for the park. His cognac eyes sparkle with anticipation. . . until I wallow on over onto my feet and he spies the accursed surgical shoe. (I think he goes to bed each night praying this odd human footwear will somehow evaporate overnight.) His ears sag -- and then collapse backward when I tell him, "Not this morning. Go find dad."

Be assured, Ben is NOT walk-deprived. He's out the door with the WPS by 7:30 most mornings. It's just that, well, it's DIFFERENT for a dog of Ben's sensitivities.

Afternoon is no different. By 4:30, Ben is upright and rigid on the futon, eyes darting back and forth from my foot to the bedroom door. By 5, he pulls out all the stops and goes "cute," resting his head on the bed and fixing me with an unwavering, unblinking, soul-penetrating stare. Thankfully, the WPS intervenes and breaks the canine guilt chain.

Walks completed for the day, he's a different dog. Back up on the futon, wrestling me for comforter real estate, he's content to hunker down while I read and watch TV. But I know, although Ben's happily sprawled out next to me, he's wondering when life, as he defines it, will be back to "normal". . . when that strange shoe goes away -- and those funny sticks that currently prop me up are back in the closet.

My new right foot: Dangling

This has been my view of the world since last Thursday afternoon, but today, today, I graduated to dangling.

Please, hold your applause.

What this means is I can now alternate elevating and icing my foot with dangling and swinging it. Ahh, life's little pleasures.

I do come away with a greater of appreciation of life winnowed down to one room, a bazillion pillows, good books and magazines, March Madness, a TV, a cell phone and the best gray dog ever.

It's lovely watching spring slowly track its way across the TV room walls, creating long shadows and random sunspots. And it's lovely having the time -- and excuse -- to just sit.

After his morning walk, Ben hopped up on the bed and settled in for the rest of the day, filling the room with quiet sighs and an occasional growl. Finally, he burrowed his head in the chenille throw I had tossed over my lap as if to say, "I'll stay here forever if you will."

I read a book cover to cover in just one day. (Haven't done that since college when, one Saturday, I was completely and totally paralyzed on my dorm room floor for 8 hours so, racing through "The Exorcist.") I watched a chick flick -- without apology. But I wasn't a complete lump. I did rise up out of bed and tool up and down the hall a few times each day -- just to say I did. And I did write thank-notes, to boot. See? I wasn't a COMPLETE lump.

A few friends dropped by. Others texted and called on the phone. The WSP (aka, Wonderfully Patient Spouse) cruised in and out with ice packs and scratch tickets, hunkering down with me in the afternoon to watch our basketball brackets continue their inevitable march toward irrelevance as one upset piled on after another.

Would I want to be confined to bed... or to one room... the rest of my life? The answer, of course, is no. But do I appreciate taking a step back now and then. And I will savor the temporary solitude and simplicty that come with a few weeks' lost mobility.

And all thanks, if you will, to the humble bunion.

My new right foot: The BEFORE shot

Yes, I know. They ARE lovely, aren't they? (Hopefully, you removed all small children from the room before opening this blog.)

And, before you reach for the Close button, consider this: Be thankful I wasn't blogging three years ago back when I had a mastectomy.

It's D Day -- the Omaha Beach of bunion banishment. The Waterloo of foot reformation. The Apocalypse of twisted toes. In other words, surgery at 8:15 a.m. bright and early tomorrow morning.

The crutches are primed. Ice packs locked 'n loaded. Books and magazines stacked high next to the bed. And all my favorite Food Network shows circled in red in the TV guide. Bring it on.

Or not.

I took two long walks today -- one with Ben, the dog, this morning. I'm going to miss this over the next five weeks: Every morning is different for Ben. He is never disappointed. He never dodges the wake-up call. Without fail, rain or shine, he dances to the end of the driveway, eyes glowing in anticipation, thinking of the adventures about to befall us at Comstock Park.

Each shrub, tree and fence post tells a new story. There are squirrels to herd, and encounters to complete with canine friends like Wally, Hishi and, yes, even Charlie, the park goof-dog. Life's good. And, life lesson learned, never resist -- and always to try adopt in some small human way -- a dog's zest for life in the moment.

Later, I walked along the Centennial Trail at noon, which snakes along our beautiful, at times rugged, river that splits Bermtopia south from north. It was sunny, 60 degrees. Spring! More and more bird calls command my attention along the river, willows and wild roses are greening up -- and the geese who, on a good day, can send me into a panic attack with a single glance (long story, best told at another time) are teeing up for the mating season and I'm already looking for cover. I'm going to miss this too.

I know it's not forever. But it's for five weeks. And it's spring.

My new right foot

The Curse of the Bailey Feet has caught up with me. It was inevitable. Despite passing on generally rock-star genes along any number of chromosomal fronts, the ladies on my mom's side of the family historically have had terrible feet -- bunions, hammertoes, corns, calluses, the works.

And, alas, most of the time you can't beat genetics: Hence, I have terrible feet, too.

To illustrate: A couple of years ago, my co-workers and I created a Christmas banner of our footprints (red and green paint, of course!). I know. Don't ask. You kind of had to be there. And work with the people I do.

After I made my contribution, we all agreed it looked like a Hobbit had scampered across the butcher paper. (Or Spawn of the Devil if you prefer something a little more sinister. There was a decidedly "cloven hoof" look to the prints depending on how you looked at them.)

Add a dash of psoriasis,and to put it bluntly, you're looking at some pretty skanky dogs. Which is why, a couple of weeks ago, when the most comfortable pair of shoes I've ever owned started to feel like Cinderella's glass slipper. . . ONLY ON THE UGLY STEPSISTER'S FOOT. . . I knew it was time to face the music and see a podiatrist.

I credit Dr. T and his staff for not running out of the exam room screaming like school girls when I peeled off my socks. I guess it's all part of being a podiatric professional. And while the good doctor poked, prodded, bent and flexed my foot and toes, I toddled off to LaLaLand, thinking maybe it would be okay after all. Sadly, it was short visit -- somewhere between the words "severe" and "joint is starting to dislocate," I knew the jig was up. If I wanted to continue walking upright like my human brothers and sisters, a surgical intervention was in my future.

Depending on who you talk to, bunion surgery can be notoriously painful -- or a "walk" (but not really) in the park. I'm not too worried about that. I come from sturdy peasant stock (well, aside from crappy feet). I heal fast and have a high tolerance for pain. I say, Bring.It.On.

Pain is transient. But the recovery time? Not so much. Can you say five weeks before you can place any weight on the surgical foot? Two weeks on crutches? No driving? No dog walking? No gardening? No golfing? For AT LEAST five weeks? Arrrrghhh.

I'm already starting a "bucket list" of things I want to do before my tootsies go under the knife.

But, given the alternative -- I'll take it. It beats being called Igor.