I had a new experience yesterday. I like to document all new experiences in some way, and since the doctor didn't let me keep my x-rays, I figured I'd write about it here.
For awhile now, I have had a sore foot. My family doctor called it a hallux valgus, but when I told that to the podiatrist's receptionist, she said "you mean a bunion?", which made me feel much less dramatic. I prefer the latin name.
I made the appointment ages ago and finally, yesterday, I had to figure out where it was and make my way there. Turns out it was quite far out of the downtown core, and so I had to take the bus to get there. I am not a bus person. The bus freaks me out - I am constantly worried that I took the wrong bus, that I missed my correct bus, that I will miss my stop, or that I won't get out of the bus in time when it does stop. I tend to sit near the doors and pay close attention. I have also learned that some bus routes are more civilized than others. On this particular stretch, we passed two hospitals - one of them the local mental hospital - and the front of the bus became an entangled mess of walkers, strollers, and people switching seats to allow the elderly or troubled passengers to sit down. I stuck to the back.
This bus smelled like a mix of exhaust and halitosis. I sat next to a nice elderly gentleman, I'll call him Italian (his sandals looked Italian), who was returning home with his recent purchase, a DVD copy of a Verdi opera. He was a largish man, however, and our hips were squeezed together a bit uncomfortably, a fact that neither of us was willing to acknowledge as the bus lurched side to side. I picked him as my seatmate because he was relatively nicely dressed and his hair seemed clean, and didn't look like he would smell bad, which was more than I could say for the rest of my fellow passengers. I stared out the window with great purpose for at least 15 blocks before my predicted stop, and then pulled a move typical of me: so worried that I would miss my stop, I got out four blocks earlier than I needed to. I tried to seem casual as I walked behind my bus, waiting in traffic, and watched as the other passengers got off up ahead, right where I needed to be.
Anyway, I finally got into the waiting room of the podiatrist's office, and filled out the form. I have had so many specialists in my day that I know this form well: allergies to any medication? Nope. Any of the following conditions? Only athsma. Any perscription meds? Only ventolin. I like this form. I was a dentist-surfer for years so I have filled it out many times. The one at my current dentist's office is super-detailed; it takes a good 20 minutes to fill it out and asks about every disease under the sun. This one was simple, though - I was done in about 2 minutes. I guess they don't really care about your athsma when they're working on your feet.
I sat and waited. And waited and waited. I picked a seat next to the magazines but this made me sit directly across from a woman and right next to a man, and we were all really concerned with not letting our feet or elbows touch the whole time - not an easy feat, this was the tightest waiting room I'd ever seen.
I got in to see the doctor and it was pretty quick, being that I was their last patient of the day. I actually had to ask him to slow down at one point as I wasn't catching what he was saying (next stop, the hearing centre next door). Consultation, x-rays, talk of orthotics, then they made plaster casts of my feet, which was super fun. I doubt I will get those back. There was a nurse there who croaked "I'm real bossy. Been here 35 years. Put your feet here, hon, and stand like that. OK hon, now let's do the other foot. OK hon, that's great sweetie, thanks." The next one told me that none of the nurses there were married.
Turns out my feet are collapsing under the great weight of my body as I lumber through life. OK I'm joking, I'm not that heavy, but for some reason the tops of my feet are losing their structural integrity, causing my hallux valgus (or bunion, as others may choose to call it) and forming little claws on the backs of my heels, like Rosie's dewclaws. I went home with a piece of rubber strapped to the bottom of my foot and moped around all evening like a lame horse, even though nothing had really changed in the course of my day. My cruel husband still let me make dinner.
These orthotics are going to set me back $635. Only $300 of it is covered by the cheap bastards at my work, so I'm on the hook for $335. I figure it's better than surgery, though my mother reminds me that with surgery I get two weeks off work. You don't get time off for orthotics. I am nervous that I will never wear stylish shoes again, as I do love my high heels, but I figure I'll cheat for special occasions.
Bottom line is: getting old is expensive. Specialists are expensive. Thank god the ship is coming in (slowly), but that's a story for another day.
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