My Stiletto
** WARNING GRAPHIC PHOTOS BELOW**
I want to give everybody a preemptive warning, some of the photos in this post may not be suitable for everyone. Included are post-surgery pictures (All of the graphic images are at the very bottom of this post and squeamish readers can read the post without the gory onslaught). And HEY! If they happen to be your kink, you're welcome ;) tips are appreciated ;p
Back in the prehistoric era of 2013, my feet decided to rebel and were curving inwards. I opted for tendon reassignment surgery to coax them back into alignment, as I was still able to do pivot transfers and some weight bearing, but my feet were causing havoc with this. Surprisingly this first surgery worked—for a while at least. Fast forward to the not-so-distant past of October 2019, and my right foot staged a mutiny, causing discomfort and pain reminiscent of an ex-girlfriend seeking revenge. I sought the advice of my GP who referred me to an Orthopedic surgeon. His proposed solution? Severing the tendons in my right foot, effectively rendering it a limp participant in the ongoing saga of my mobility. Thus began the waiting game, with the surgeon's estimation of three months feeling like an eternity in a waiting room filled with outdated magazines and questionable wall art. But lo and behold, like a beacon of light in the darkness of December, a phone call arrived, offering me a chance to unwrap the gift of foot surgery just before Christmas. Ho, ho, ho...off to foot surgery I go!
Ah, the joys of surgical consultations—the promises of tiny incisions and swift procedures, as if fixing a foot were as simple as mending a torn hem. I vividly remember sitting in that sterile room, nodding along as the surgeon outlined his plan: "Just a quick snip here, a stitch there, and voila! You'll be good as new." Little did I know, my adventure was just beginning.
As I settled into the pre-op room, anticipation mingled with a hint of trepidation. Hours ticked by like grains of sand in an hourglass, until finally, I awoke after the surgery in what could only be described as a glorified broom closet. There it was, encased in a thick cast—my foot, now a captive audience to its own surgical drama.
With half the day already slipping away, I inquired about the elusive surgeon's whereabouts, only to be met with a perplexing revelation: he had apparently embarked on his merry Christmas vacation the moment he finished his last stitch on the operating table. Left to ponder my fate in the company of hospital-grade linoleum, I asked when I could make my escape. Much to my surprise, the answer was simply, "Whenever you fancy." No aftercare instructions, no lingering orders to keep my foot elevated—just an open road ahead, or rather, an open door leading back to the comforts of home.
And so, with Jeff at my side, well, behind me as he was pushing me, we left the hospital, cast and all, feeling a bit like a protagonist in a particularly bizarre holiday-themed sitcom. Who needs a surgeon's post-op visit when you have the freedom to shower with a cast on and embark on the journey of recovery at your own pace? Off we went, bidding farewell to the closet-sized hospital room and unaware of the road ahead.
Ah, the joys of homecoming after a surgical escapade—except, in my case, the script took a sudden and painful twist. As night fell and I attempted to get my beauty sleep, my foot had other plans. It felt as though a miniature sword-wielding ninja had taken residence in my foot, launching a relentless assault on my heel. I found myself dialing my parents' number every hour on the hour, hoping for some semblance of relief from the relentless agony.
Morning broke, bringing with it the grim realization that my foot and I were locked in a battle of wills. Determined to decipher the source of my torment, Jeff and I embarked on an impromptu journey to the Emergency Room, where time seemed to move at a glacial pace. Hours stretched into eternity as we waited, our patience wearing thinner with each passing minute.
Finally, 16 hours later, a weary-eyed doctor entered the scene, ready to uncover the mystery behind my suffering. He opened my cast, revealing a sight that would make even the bravest of souls recoil in horror. There it was, protruding from my heel—a metal rod, a stark reminder of the unforeseen twists and turns my surgical endeavor had taken.
As I grappled with the shock of this unexpected revelation and asked “What the F#$k is that?” the ER doctor offered a simple diagnosis: "Well, there's your problem." But the surprises didn't end there. What I had anticipated as a minor surgical intervention had morphed into a full-blown spectacle, complete with not one, but two incisions, one of which could hardly be described as "small" by any stretch of the imagination. It was a revelation as baffling as it was painful, leaving me questioning everything I was expecting based on my initial consultation.
In the aftermath of this revelation, the ER doctor prescribed me a generous dose of painkillers and extended my stay in the realm of hospital beds and fluorescent lighting for another four nights. Woohoo! And so, with a newfound appreciation for the unpredictability of the human body and the quirks of modern medicine, I settled in for another chapter in the saga of my foot's misadventures.
During my stay, my own care workers came into the hospital to hang out with me during their regular shifts. They graciously indulged my whims, including the rather unconventional pastime of hanging out mid-air in a transfer lift, this method seemed to be the only way for me to get relief from the pain. Little did I know, relief also would come in the form of a single Hydromorphone pill, administered by a skeptical nurse in response to my persistent complaints. In my usual fashion, I scoffed at its efficacy, dismissing it as a futile endeavor—only to find myself abruptly silenced as its potent effects slowly washed over me, leaving me humbled by the undeniable power of modern pharmacology. I suppose I can be wrong once in a blue moon.
Once liberated from the confines of the hospital, my journey towards recovery took a relatively smooth trajectory—until the inevitable day arrived for the removal of the notorious rod protruding from my foot. With all the grace of a medieval executioner, my surgeon entered the room, pliers in hand, ready to perform the delicate art of rod extraction. What followed can only be likened to the sensation of having a tooth forcefully extracted—minus the courtesy of anesthesia. Despite the surgeon's reassurances of minimal discomfort, I found myself grappling with what can only be described as the most excruciating pain I have ever felt.
Relaxing at home, looking forward to the rod removal.
As I reflect on the trials and tribulations of my surgical misadventures, one thing becomes abundantly clear: scheduling foot surgery a week before Christmas is a recipe for disaster. Lesson learned: keep your feet elevated, your expectations low, and your surgical appointments far, far away from the holiday season.
And, the anticipation builds as the next chapter in my surgical saga beckons. Just the other day, I received that long-awaited call to book a consult for the next go around, believe it or not, I am doing it all over again. This time it is my left foot that is about to face the judge, jury, and executioner. But, as is often the case in the grand comedy of life, things didn't unfold quite as smoothly as one might hope.
The evening before my appointment with the surgeon, disaster struck in the form of a van malfunction, leaving me stranded without reliable transportation. With cancellation fees looming over my head and handi-dart out of the question, I found myself facing the daunting prospect of navigating the city's public transit system in a caffeine-deprived haze. Sacrificing my beloved morning coffee, shower, and poop de jour, I embarked on a frigid journey, braving the elements and multiple transfers in pursuit of a mere five-minute appointment. In hindsight, a phone call or Skype session would have sufficed, sparing me the 4-hour trek through snow and wind.
Had to get a quick selfie to remember this one time Tora and I actually took the bus
But alas, all's well that ends with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Upon returning home, I wasted no time in indulging in the sweet nectar of the gods that is coffee, restoring balance to my universe and providing a much-needed moment of respite from the day's trials.
As I await news of the next surgical date, armed with the wisdom of experience, I approach the future with cautious optimism. With any luck—and a healthy dose of *knocking on wood*—the road ahead will be smoother. Here's to hoping the next chapter in my surgical adventure unfolds with a little less drama and a lot more java.
