© 2010 Jules

Two Days Remain

Today is Tuesday.  Tomorrow is Wednesday.  Then comes Thursday and my 10:15 am appointment with the podiatrist.  I will wheel into that appointment gladly to let them cut my casts off.  My doctor will take one look at my feet and exclaim “A remarkable thing has occurred Jules, I can’t believe I am telling you this, but your tendons are completely healed.  Get back to training for that marathon my friend!”   The music will play and the lights will glow and champagne will fall from the heavens.  I will leap to my feet in jubilation and dance down the halls and out the door like a brand new woman.  On my way to my car I will accidentally bump into a shockingly handsome man who, after taking one look at my rapturous face, will ask me out for coffee and turn out to be the love of my life.

That is my hopeful vision for Thursday’s appointment.  My less hopeful vision runs about like this:

My 10:15 am appointment with the podiatrist arrives and my mom holds my hand while they cut off my casts to reveal my white, hairy legs.  Then I maneuver into my wheelchair and spin down the hall to the exam room.  The doctor enters, his white lab coat flapping in his wake, and pokes my feet in a highly clinical manner.  “Tilt your foot this way, does this hurt?  No?  Any pain here?  Yes, hmm…”  He will frown thoughtfully leaving me waiting in eager anticipation for the prognosis while writing a few notes on my file.  Then he will raise his eyes and inform me that the next step will be to put me into some ankle braces and get me back to wearing my orthodics.  We will then discuss physical therapy options and schedule a weekly appointment to get my weak feet back into shape.  I will roll home in the wheelchair because it still hurts to stand, but will gladly shower without bags over my legs and will lay out to get some sun on my white calves.

Not good, not bad, I am resigned that this will be a long road to healing.  Though sometimes when I am really fed up with everything, my downright morbid vision for Thursday’s appointment runs thus:

My 10:15 appointment with the podiatrist arrives and my wrists hurt more than ever as I wheel myself down the dauntingly long halls of Kaiser, Vacaville.  The department is unexpectedly running late and I am forced to sit in the waiting room for an additional hour waiting on my turn to see the doctor while being forced to watch Conservative News Reporting on the TV screens that fill the lobby.  When I finally wheel in and they cut my casts off, the blade accidentally slices my leg and they have to give me three stitches in my left calf while the cast technician apologizes profusely and repeatedly asserts, “this has never cut anyone before, really I don’t know what happened.”  My legs will be shockingly withered and my muscles will have atrophied so extremely that when I try to stand on my recently reclaimed feet, my ankles immediately buckle under my weight and I crumble to the floor landing in the piles of gauze that were just removed from my casts.  I am lifted into my wheelchair and taken down the hall to the exam room where the doctor enters and probes my feet and eventually decides I need another round of casts to allow more complete healing.  Down the hall, cast her yet again, sign, seal and dismiss.  I find myself shuttled out the door, still a prisoner in my own body.  I dissolve into inconsolable weeping in my car and wonder if I’ll ever walk again.

Low point.  Low point.

Two more days in casts.  Inhale and exhale.  I will get through this.  I will run again some day.

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