It began with a bunion on my left foot. “It’s my mother’s fault,” I muttered to myself. If she hadn’t insisted on my taking those black, slingback shoes that looked like Jimmy Choo knock offs, my foot would not look the way it did. I conveniently forgot I had a choice and didn’t have to accept, much less wear the shoes in the first place, regardless of how they accentuated my already shapely calves.
Slowly, I watched my large left toe migrate toward the second toe, and in the process, the joint in the big toe kept moving outward. When the orb became red and caused pain while walking, I knew it was time to see an orthopedic foot surgeon. Two weeks and two X-rays later, the surgeon explained the procedure, including the recuperation period, which would be three weeks on crutches, keeping the foot dry and a total of eight weeks in a special “bunion” shoe. I hoped they at least came in multiple color choices. There would be six weekly visits after the stitches were removed for routine dressing changes. I had to resist the urge to wrinkle my nose at the thought of not bathing my foot for eight weeks, and the pungent odor that would permeate the air around my healing apendage. The surgeon assured me foot cleansing would be performed by his assistant when the bandages were changed. I felt better knowing proper foot hygiene would occur at least once a week during that time period.
My first bunionectomy was performed six weeks later. I woke up in pain, vaguely conscious my left foot felt unnaturally bulky. Miraculously, modern medicine intervened in the form of a narcotic injection, and I fell into a drug-induced sleep. What seemed like only moments later, I was told it was time to dress and go home; bunion correction is a same-day procedure. I barely remember being escorted to my friend’s car or the ride home.
Linda fed me soup and crackers, put me to bed and stayed with me in case I needed assistance getting up during the night. I was grateful she was such a good friend. Burning, throbbing pain woke me the next morning. Medication intended to ease the pain, upset my empty stomach and promptly came back up. Linda blanched visibly, handed me a wastebasket, promptly told me I was on my own and was out the door. Appreciative thoughts exited with her departure. The rest of the day was spent alone, in a pain-induced fog. Fear of another nausea attack stopped me from taking the medication. Who would empty the wastebasket? Phone calls between doctors followed, as I pleaded to go to the hospital for observation. No one seemed to know who had the authority to admit me — the surgeon or my primary care physician. Late at night the impasse broke, and permission was granted for admission.
Frustration with the after hours, snail-like pace of admission procedures provided the perfect opportunity to hone my skill of yelling at the top of my lungs. Linda tried to distract me by doing her imitation of an elk in rutting season, which always induced fits of laughter. It did. Briefly. I promptly resumed voicing my displeasure several octaves higher than before, hoping this behavior would get someone to at least acknowledge my existence and alleviate my pain. I was hoarse from yelling by the time that finally happened.
I spent two days in the hospital receiving narcotic medication and sleeping before being discharged. Once again, Linda drove me home.
For the following two weeks, I reclined on the couch, my foot encased in the boring, black bunion shoe, elevated higher than my heart, watching E-Hollywood, Lifetime and A&E on television. The following week I was back at my desk, and six weeks later, wearing regular shoes.
A year and a half later, I had a déjà vu experience as I looked at my right foot. It was beginning to resemble the left foot prior to surgery. I knew the same fate had befallen my right foot, and another bunionectomy was just a footprint away. “I’ll bounce back faster if I have surgery now instead of waiting until I’m older,” I reasoned. Being slightly vain and wanting to have a matched set, I again saw the surgeon for a consultation.
Four weeks later, a bunionectomy was performed on my right foot. Before the anesthetic took effect, I commented on the music in the operating room and requested acoustic guitar be played during surgery. Please, no country/western. I woke up in the recovery room and then again in Pod C, where I spent the next couple hours until the effects of the spinal wore off. A few hours later, I was home, resting on the couch. My recuperation was the same, and the routine didn’t bother me the first several days.
Perhaps because it was spring and the sun beckoned, I was restless. Sitting on the couch gave me ample time to notice the lint on the rugs, dust in the corners and dirt on the linoleum kitchen floor. I had cleaned before the surgery, but dirt and dust have lives of their own and seem to take the commandment be fruitful and multiply seriously.
Being mobility challenged was no excuse to compromise my cleaning standards. I figured out a way to vacuum on crutches. Using the vacuum cleaner as one crutch, and the other crutch under my right arm, I slowly maneuvered the vacuum on the carpet, cleaning small sections at a time, trying hard to avoid bumping into the furniture. I had to stop every few feet to move the crutch that wasn’t being used, and position it along the wall. The muscles in my upper torso were getting toned from this workout, as were the muscles in my upper arms from using crutches. “I’ll be buff in no time,” I thought.
Next came “combing” the fringe on the area rugs. This required balancing and bending my good leg, holding both crutches on the hand rest with my right arm and leaning forward with the vacuum attachment. When one area of the fringe was “coiffed,” I hopped to the next section until the fringe was perfectly straight. After my workout, I collapsed on the couch, feeling as if I’d just scaled one of the seven peaks, too exhausted to appreciate my accomplishment. When Linda came to visit I admonished her to step over the fringe so as not to disturb its symmetry. She threw me a pathetic look.
Now, 20-plus years later, and foot surgery trials a dim memory. I love showing off my feet in a pair of slinky, snappy sandals with no unsightly bunions to mar their beauty. I’ll never again have bunion blues! I only have two feet!
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Bunion Blues: One Woman’s Experience With Foot Surgery originally appeared on usnews.com
