Standing on my own two feet ... NOT

It started when I began noticing that my feet hurt in some of my shoes.  Not killer hurt,  but hurt.  So I casually mentioned it to my doctor, who, equally casually, diagnosed bunions and told me that surgery was the only cure.  He added that surgery would involve cutting out bone, breaking bones, putting screws in bone, and - worse - would mean 2-3 months of being completely off my feet, so I decided that surgery sounded like a silly idea; after all, I could just use the mind-over-matter approach and my feet would stop hurting, right?  I suppose I should have tried the mind-over-feet approach, as the former didn't work all that well.  Still, I managed to go along for quite a while without feeling the need to do anything drastic.

When I realized that not one single pair of shoes were actually comfortable anymore, not even my sneakers, and only one pair of bedroom slippers caused no pain, surgery stopped sounding so silly.

Naturally, if I were to go ahead and have this surgery, doing one foot at a time made no sense at all.  Okay, it would be nice to have one working foot, I suppose, but it would mean taking twice the time off work, just months apart, and having someone come in and help me not once but twice as one shouldn't really be left on one's own too much while on pain pills.

So I began planning.  A note here to military generals:  If one can successfully plan an operation of this type (pun intended), one can plan anything.  Got an invasion you need organized?  Maybe a take-over of a small country?  Just call me.  I can handle it.

First, the surgery had to be scheduled to suit my doctor, me, my job, my sister (who would come take care of me for a week), my friend who would move in after my sister left and this had to be done within the confines of my podiatrist's scheduling system (come in the month before you want it done and we'll schedule it for the following month ... and so one can't make actual plans until that date is established) - well, you get the picture.

Next, came the peripheries.  How to get my sister and me home from the surgery (she can't drive my car - a stick), how to get us back for re-bandaging several days later, how to get her to the airport to return home....  And the extras.  There was the need to stock up on things like prescription drugs and groceries, to prevent friends having to do much shopping for me.  I spent weeks accumulating enough toilet paper, cat litter and hand soap to fill a pantry.  Once things were in place, I began cooking.  I'd been told that the two things I wouldn't be able to do for myself for several weeks were drive (at least not my car) and cook.  Ergo, the latter had to be done in advance.

The first step was cleaning out the freezer.

After eating - er, eliminating - the majority of the contents, I was free to prepare for surgery.  Weekends became cooking marathons - big pots of this, huge casseroles of that - all packaged neatly and tucked into the corners of what had become a fairly empty freezer.

Ahhh.  All my stresses were over.  Now, all I needed was the pre-op "stuff" and I could curl up on the operating table with a good knock-out drug and emerge with happier feet.

Silly me!  All the pre-op blood work - check.  Good to go.  The pre-op EKG?  Not so much.  Turns out I was having atrial fibrillation, a nasty little disorder that can cause blood clots and resultant strokes.  Anesthesiologists, in particular, do not like to see this, I was told.  A week of beta-blockers later, a second EKG and ... nope.  Still no good.  Three days to surgery and it's a no-go.  The day before surgery, I saw a charming, extremely busy, avuncular cardiologist who fit me in thanks to some pleading from my wonderful primary care doc and got the go-ahead.  Naturally, this emergency dr. visit required me to cancel a couple of my own clients so I then got to go into work the day of surgery to care for them.  What is life without a little last minute stress?

But the day had arrived!  My sister and I drove a borrowed car to the surgery center, where they took me in early (!), taught me to use crutches, and found me the ugliest boots ever,

before hooking me up to wires and drips.

And now I'm a week post-surgery and ecstatic.  I've had no pain, in spite of having ditched the pain pills after the first three days, and I'm reasonably mobile on my crutches, as long as I don't have to go long distances or navigate stairs.  Spending the better part of a week in bed with the cats, my computer and a large stack of books is not an experience to be dissed.  Having one's sister bring food (and, post-pain pills, wine) three times a day is lovely.  Having her around was actually one of the best parts of the whole thing.  Wearing these boots for another month, plus - not so great, but I can handle it.  I have visions of the future to keep me going: