Back to work and the dishpan foot spa

Monday morning I gathered together the home office (dismantled over the weekend, much to Ben's growing distress as he realized The Party Was Over) and my foot surgery survival bag (freezer ice bag, surgical "sandal" ** my ass ** and various socks) and schlepped off to The Chamber of Horrors work.













It's nice to be back.

For the half days I've scheduled myself in this week.

It's all about moderation, I say. It's all about moderation.

And thanks to all this "moderation," I'm about to share one of the greatest discoveries of all time. I'm talking on the scale of penicillin, folks! Aseptic technique! and, of course, gnocchi with pesto sauce.

Really. I'm THAT serious.

Prepared to be dazzled. . . by Contrast Baths.

The ultimate foot spa in a dishpan.

I'm sorry to say it wasn't my idea. As I sifted through my Week 3 post-op instructions (aka, "Podiatry without Meds"), I got down to item 5 -- You can start contrast baths for pain/swelling.

Really?

Major disclaimer before we dive in: This is NOT universal medical advice. If you are recovering from foot surgery or injury, or have other chronic health issues involving your tootsies, follow your own health care provider's instructions To. The. Letter. No exceptions. Got it?  

This is just a dumb, goofy blog, for pete's sake, not the Mayo Clinic.

But for something that is magically soothing for an tired, old pair of dawgs, that do not have surgical, injury or chronic health considerations, may I suggest "contrast baths." You'll  need:

One plastic dishpan of ice water. I perked up immediately when I first read this. As parents of two pretty competitive soccer players who seemed to excelled at rolled ankles about every 45 minutes (along with many goals and assists in their respective careers), my date and I have long appreciated the restorative (if not a little shocking) powers of the ice bath.

One plastic dishpan of warm water. Note: You are NOT boiling lobsters here. Test the heat -- it should be kinda like bathtub.

Step 1: Crack open Words with Friends. (Good news! I usually only lose by 100 points by now. Yay me.)

Step 2: Soak your  tired old feet in the ice bath for one minute.Yes, high-pitched squeaks are a known side effect.

Step 3:  Then soak your tired old feet in the warm bath for one minute. Whoa, mama, that feels good.

Step 4:  Rinse and repeat for 5 to 10 minutes. Odd as it may sound, I think you'll find your feet feeling quite happy and relaxed after a session.

Ahh-hhhhh-hhhh

I foresee "contrast baths" -- otherwise known as the dishpan foot spa -- becoming a regular fixture the weekly relaxation regimen. And next time your non-medically compromised (you can never get enough of a good disclaimer) wheels need a little pick-me-up, try the dishpan foot spa.

And, remember, squeaks are allowed.

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

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.