Here is the thing. I went to see a doctor about a bunion on my right foot, and emerged with a surgery date for a toe cyst. (This is why one of my oldest and dearest friends never goes to doctors! She knows they are going to tell her something she has no interest in hearing.) But this doctor had me from the word, “sinkhole.”
He said he had seen other cysts in the big toe, but nothing the size of mine. The cyst was the toe; it had eaten all but one millimeter of bone. Any minute, the flesh, tendons, and all the sinewy matter of my toe could be sucked like a, whoosh! into the sinkhole that was my toe. But he had a solution. Graft some bone from my hip onto the evaporating bone in my toe. I would be in and out of the hospital the same day, and would only need to keep my weight off that foot for six weeks. As it turns out, it’s not actually the toe, it’s my first metatarsal, the soft plushy part right under the toe. But it didn’t matter. I scheduled the surgery because had I not, I would have spent every walking moment wondering if my next step would yield a toe implosion.
So on Tuesday, April 8, I checked into the hospital at 8:30 a.m., and checked out at 4:30 p.m., with a set of crutches, a walker and a foot wrapped liked a half-opened present. I keep it elevated, and wait impatiently. Hop hop hopping like a bunny rabbit to get a glass of water is exhausting, and ultimately makes me bad company because I whine with fabulous passion:
But I just need to hold out a few more days. I see the doctor this Friday, and (hopefully), he will say, “Your bone has grafted just fine. Time to put on the boot!”
Then I can ditch the devices, and at least walk on my heel, which means mobility! I’ll be ready to rock and roll by Memorial Day. Yeah!