Giving Me the Boot

After two hip surgeries, including one where it was replaced altogether, I've had my share of medical devices.

The short list includes canes, crutches, claws, sock pull-ups, a commode, and my personal favorite.....the ice machine. Suffice it to say that under any analysis, I feel that I've had enough of these items to last a lifetime.

That's why I couldn't be more disappointed to discover that the nagging softball injury I suffered on artificial turf was not, as I had suspected, a sprained foot. I went through the perfunctory X-ray (inconclusive) and MRI (made much better by the satellite radio station that was pumping through the headphones). But had to wait about 3 days to find out what I had. So, I started rationalizing all the possibilities.

It could be a break, a fracture, a torn tendon, a torn ligament, or the latest trendy injury with the extremely lame moniker, "turf toe." I waited a day for the results, only to find that I had none of these. I did, however, have a torn joint capsule.

What the hell was that? I know that "torn" is never particularly good, and neither is any injury to the joint. It was the "capsule" that was throwing me. Without getting into the rudiments of basic podiatry, this translated into a few key recovery items.

Rest, Immobility......and........THE BOOT. Not Das Boot. The dreaded foot boot.

Now, I have probably seen hundreds, no, maybe thousands of people in these large stabilization boots. And I'm in tune with the necessity for them. In fact, if you have a normal size foot, they almost look...cool.

The problem is, I'm a size 12. For shoes, skates, sandals, and sneakers, there really isn't a terribly noticeable difference from the norm. But put on a therapeutic boot, and you just grabbed a bullhorn, jumped onto a loudspeaker, hired a cheerleading squad,and broadcast in stereo to look down at this deformity.

When I went to the podiatrist to size it, they said that my toes protruded beyond the large size. (Who did they think they were fitting, "Shaq?") Therefore, the only comfortable option was an X-large. To put this into the proper perspective, the difference between the large an X-large was about 2 city blocks.

After I left the doctor, I began to walk down 7th avenue to test my theory. And sure enough, it was true. With a single step, I covered both 54th and 55th streets. When you work in the city, it takes a lot for people to notice you. They've seen everything. But I couldn't help noticing that as I made my approach down the street, people were taking cover like a tsunami was coming.

Back at the office, several co-workers were wondering if I was actually wearing a boot, or a cage you transport animals in. It was a valid question. Later that day, my kids caught sight of it for the first time and became caught between sympathy and hysterics. In case you were wondering, the hysterics won.

So, I'll be stuck with this boot for a full month which invariably will present itself with literally hours of comic relief. First, it will look great with a pinstripe suit. The perfect accessory. It will also be ideal for big client meetings, especially when I stand up. And I do worry about flying. If I check it, it'll be over the weight limit. If I wear it, there is a possibility that it will weigh the plane down. I probably can't get the emergency row either. Maybe I'll take the train.

If you do see me in the next month, please take the proper precautions. Tuck and roll, wear a helmet, and leave at least 5 car lengths between the two of us.

"SAWed" in Half

My grandfather loved surgery, like a man loves his dog. He would discuss his schedule of surgeries as someone else would speak about a timeshare. Instead of an upcoming trip to the Caribbean, he would mention his upcoming carotid artery surgery. Others would boast about Bali, he would proudly discuss his pending bypass surgery.

I didn't have my first surgery until I was 38, and unlike my grandfather, my preparation was nothing akin to an island vacation. Mine was much closer to being in a "SAW" movie. My procedure wasn't overly complicated or dangerous and the surgeon was the most notable expert in the field. But none of that mattered to me. In my mind, the whole concept of surgery was, stated in the proper vernacular......NUTS!

I often think that if you had to describe the process of surgery to creatures from another planet, they might consider it an act of barbarism. My description would go something like this:

First, they starve you for twelve hours. When arriving at a large building filled with sick people, they ask you to immediately strip naked. To avoid embarrassment, they clothe you with an oversized gown and funny slippers, which only causes further embarrassment. Next, for entertainment, you receive a needle in your arm which is attached to a movable pole that you have to drag with you like a new pet. After a long, unbearable wait, your number comes up, and they lead you through a set of double doors that feel like the entrance to a dungeon for top secret science experiments.

You're led into a room where you're immediately surrouded by several men and women in outlaw masks. There's a great temptation to put your hands in the air, then hand over your wallet(if you only had pants). They toy with you further by asking for your name and the reason for your "visit." To complete your outfit, you're given a hat which is a cross between a shower cap and a chef's hat. So you don't see how ridiculous you look, they put you to sleep. Then, with a series of sharp instruments, they take your body and slice, dice, and trim until completion(maybe that's why you get a chef's hat).

Hours later, your eyes open and you awaken in a room with other victims, without any recollection of how you got there. I've had two surgeries now, and there's a third one pending.

I just wish it felt more like a timeshare.