While it’s taken nearly a full week of
recovering getting a grip on my new, temporary situation, here I am, back at my keyboard. I’m raring to go!
Given all of my whining and angst in the days leading up to my foot surgery, one would think it involved amputation. A long-time friend contacted me a couple of days before I was to have my surgery and gave me a pep talk. Lean into it, she told me. Make it an adventure, she suggested. And then she added that she had spent an entire hot and humid Nebraska summer and fall in a thigh-to-ankle cast after slipping on a piece of fruit on the floor of a Walmart and breaking a kneecap. (It’s called perspective, people.) I asked her if she hadn’t had her kneecap broken by Rocky “Knuckles” Gambino seeking late payments of school fees, but she assured me it was slipping on fruit. My idea would be more interesting.
I have now had a total of four surgeries in my life if you count the hernia operation I had when I was 7, (and why wouldn’t you?). I have nearly no recollections about my youthful operation except that the doctor allowed me to take my dolly with me (though I’m pretty sure she didn’t go into the OR). But the other three surgeries all were the same. The anesthesiologist (who comes and goes like a ninja in the night, never to be seen again) says nighty-night, and I wake up a second later in the recovery room…..
This time there was no dolly by my side, just a cheerful nurse who assured me that my sister Jen and the doctor had enjoyed a lengthy conversation about my foot (and maybe the Cardinals’ chances of getting into the Super Bowl).
It was outpatient surgery, so Jen drove me home. My foot was wrapped in an Ace bandage, and it was like I had no foot at all. I kept glancing down to make sure they hadn’t done the aforementioned amputation. The numbness lasted until 2:30 Saturday morning, when I woke up and thought, gosh darn, I do have a foot, and it really hurts. Never fear, because a pain pill was near.
Since Saturday, I have not had the need for any pain medication, not even ibuprofen. My siblings say Gloors have a high pain tolerance. I nod, like I’m Superman, but the reality is that it really doesn’t hurt. And frankly, I prefer my nightly glass of wine to a narcotic. The ability to poop is often underrated unless you are prone to bowel obstructions, and narcotics are constipating while red wine is health food.
Tuesday, my sister Bec took me to my post-op appointment, where I got to see my new, improved foot for the first time. My big toe is as straight as a Mormon bishop, but my foot modeling career is over as I have two unsightly incisions. Oh, and a foot that is so swollen it looks like a balloon. But I’m happy to say he was pleased with my progress, and quite impressed with my pain tolerance (which, see above, is really virtually no pain at all, but I’ll let him be impressed). “I like my more mature patients,” he said. “They don’t whine as much.” Bill might disagree. I left wearing a bright pink cast. Why wear white when you can wear pink?…..
By the way, I never forget how impressed I am with my siblings, who have all pitched in in their own ways. Bec lifted my very heavy knee scooter in and out of her trunk so many times I thought she might participate in weight lifting in the next Olympic games. My brother brought me freshly-baked krispies, and let’s face it: krispies are healing. Jen helped me prepare, get to and from my surgery, and has provided cheerleading from Fort Collins after she went back home on Sunday.
As for Bill, he has provided yeoman services to me, though I haven’t yet had him feed me grapes. Still, I point, and he does my bidding. I might get used to this.
Thanks to all my friends and family who have prayed, cooked, and generally cheered me on. I’m on the road to better feet!