Apr 14, 2010
By Gale Hammond
Things were going a little too smoothly. I'd joined a swim aerobics class. I was on my way to getting into better shape; to becoming a slightly older Jennifer Aniston. OK, maybe a slightly less militant Jane Fonda. With more padding. Whatever.
Until one Saturday morning a few weeks ago when I innocently put my two feet on the floor, and one of them screamed in protest.
Saying I'd procrastinated about this whole thing is putting it mildly. Way back in July my ankle began to hurt. And by "ankle" I mean that part where the bend is when you flex your foot. But I wasn't especially concerned because I could, you know, still walk, sort of, except now there was this burning-kinky feeling in that vicinity.
But I figured it'd go away because bodies heal themselves, right? Yep, that's what bodies do. Heal themselves.
Except my body didn't get with the whole healing itself program, and the flare-up that recent Saturday morning caused navigation to be dang near impossible. Putting one foot in front of the other made me see stars. And because I didn't have time for such nonsense that Saturday morning, I employed the fail-proof healing technique used by great medical minds for centuries: I talked to my foot.
"This is stupid," I hissed at my obstinate appendage. "I don't have time for this, you know," thinking a little tough love would improve the situation.
But, like me, my ankle has a stubborn side, and as I did my errands that morning it throbbed. It ached. It seemed like little swords were piercing my foot. Hobbling down the grocery store aisles I indulged in a pity party. My spouse was at a golf tournament; nobody to feel sorry for me in all that pain. Not to mention walking had become intolerable.
Home again with my aching foot packed in ice and elevated on the couch, I pondered whether hospitals delivered bedpans. Yes, the handwriting was on the wall: I needed to see a doctor.
On Monday I limped in to see the foot specialist, and when x-rays failed to produce a definite diagnosis, an MRI was scheduled. As a parting gift, the good doctor presented me with a contraption that looked like half a set of hip waders. Were we venturing into the Colorado River, perhaps? Perhaps not; he wasn't carrying a fishing pole.
"Don't you have any cute ones?" I whined as he strapped on, via vast amounts of Velcro, a big, ugly, black boot that ended at my knee. In response he drew a flower on a strip of adhesive and slapped it on the boot.
And how, for Pete's sake, was I supposed to get around in this contrivance? "Just walk stiff-legged," my doctor demonstrated as I watched in horror. "Remember Chester on 'Gunsmoke'? That's how you want to walk!" Oh, dear God. Chester on "Gunsmoke?" Just the look I've been aspiring to achieve.
The unfortunate news about this Frankenstein footwear, besides being beyond ugly, is that it rendered me unable to drive. Ever the opportunist, my spouse was giddy upon reasoning that shopping was also out of the question for awhile. "Don't forget there's plenty of shopping on the Internet," I sniffed.
Sadly, wearing "Das Boot" has proven my coordination is non-existent. I bash into everything. And have I mentioned it is one ugly son-of-a-gun? "Maybe you should decorate it," friends suggested. "The good news is that it's black," chirped Daughter No. 2. "Black complements everything!" Great. At the moment it was complementing my blue nightgown.
A week later the MRI identified the problem: a torn ligament in my right ankle. "Now what?" I asked my doctor, not sure what I was hoping to hear. "Well," he replied, if you were young and athletic we'd probably do surgery, but ..."
Well. That was obviously not what I was hoping to hear ... should I perhaps point out at this juncture my stellar accomplishments as a swim aerobics person? OK, perhaps one might not accurately categorize my career as "stellar" after a mere couple of months at the gym. But still.
"Hmmph," I countered. "I'm waiting to hear how you're going to diplomatically extract yourself from that obviously inaccurate observation."
But I'll concede that "Das Boot" must be working because I can now tread pain-free most of the time. And should you see someone clumping along in this fashion statement of basic black that looks less like a boot than a piece of paraphernalia from the Ski-Equipment-Shop-of-Horrors with snow tire tread on the bottom, that'd be me. Unless I magically become young and athletic somehow, but I'm not holding my breath here.
So while it's too soon to know if "Das Boot" is the miracle cure for my bum ankle, for now it at least appears to be "Das Gute Medizin!"
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