Not all that long ago, I wrote a blog post about how men are such babies when it comes to being sick or facing a “procedure”. HuffPost picked it up (God bless their little hearts) and I think I garnered the most hate mail in the history of Huffington Post blogs. It wasn’t what I was going for.
God does have a sense of humor, as tomorrow I will have my chance at bat. I will undergo what is affectionately called a bunionectomy on my right foot. No mobility for 5 days and no weight bearing on my foot for 6 weeks. Oh, and for a little added fun and drama, I will have a plaster cast up to the knee. Are we having fun yet?
First off, let me share that my doctor’s name should be Dr. Dreamy, but decorum demands that I address him as Dr. Hurless. Killer smile, great hair, chiseled cheek bones, scruffy 2 day face beard, tanned skin and I swear his eyes twinkle. It’s all topped off with a super sweet personality. You know you’re scared out of your mind when none of that matters a wit.
All I wanted to know was how many of these procedures he’s got under his belt (thousands), how long will I be under (2 hours), how much pain will I be in (not much … and if you believe that I’ve got some land to sell you near a Florida sinkhole), and was there any bribe I could offer him (money was no object) to get out of the cast and into a boot instead? There wasn’t.
So it seems, I am condemned to a leg scooter with hand brakes (because clearly people with leg casts go steamrolling down Costco aisles on their spiffy scooters), and a pair of crutches for my very survival.
I’ve never endured this kind of surgery. No idea what to expect of it all but I am left with the knowledge that I will have a pin sticking out of my foot to stabilize the bone as it heals. I am sweating just thinking about it.
I’ve learned that I will need to shower with a big rubber boot over my cast while standing on one foot like a flamingo. As sexy as that sounds, how is that not an accident waiting to happen?
I’ve cleared my calendar of speaking engagements but will be meeting with my clients for their coaching needs. No clue exactly how I’ll make that happen, but I’m betting I will be happier than a fenced in dog going for a car ride just to get out of the house. You might even catch me with my head hanging out the window allowing the wind to flap my ears.
True to being a girl I’m worrying about the important things, like how I’m going to shave my good leg, make it to the bathroom at 3 in the morning, and what clothes will I be able to wear that will allow me to avoid the one legged potato sack look. I am not amused.
Preparing for my surgery I’ve done 4 loads of wash, cleaned the carpets, had the dog groomed, made 2 casseroles and a sumptuous vegie soup and mopped all the floors. I’ve also removed all the area rugs in the house for obvious klutzy reasons, and have gathered enough doggie poop bags for a poop apocalypse. I’ve also stocked up on enough cat kibble and dog food to weather Noah’s Ark. You can never have enough pet food. But the most important thing I’ve done to prepare is to schedule a full 90 minute body massage, manicure and pedicure later today, because my mama didn’t raise no fool.
I am surprisingly optimistic and eager to get on with the procedure. The way I figure it, I’m fixing a very sad and hurting little foot that has served me well for 60 years. I owe it a lot, and am pretty damn excited about it being as good as new in a few months.
You can be sure I will trick out my scooter with a basket (to hold my coffee, phone, tablet, blah, blah, blah). I’ll also put a horn on the handle bars just to let the cats and dog know that I’m still the boss (as if).
I am also tricking myself out with a whistle around my neck because the last thing I want for myself is to be the new poster child for the I’ve fallen and I can’t get up crowd. Now that would hurt!
Tomorrow I’m going medal shopping. The kind of medal you give to a hero. Because that is what my loving man is, my hero. And I have a feeling that before all this is said and done, I will be commissioning a statue in his likeness for the front lawn. That is, if we don’t kill each other first.
To be continued ….