Das Boot

Summer is quickly slipping away. "Daughter" starts school next week, so we're trying to jam in a few activities that have been on the "to do" list for the last few months. Yesterday I took "Daughter" to the Chicago Bears Training Camp and this afternoon, we're going to soak up some culture, by which I mean heading to the Museum of Science and Industry to see the Harry Potter Exhibit. Yes, that counts as culture, don't get all nit picky. After spending some time wandering around the relics of Hogwarts it's off to Chinatown for a little feast from the Far East. Sounds like fun, huh? It would be if I could walk.

You may recall my award winning (Self Important Blogger Awards) multi part account of my motorcycle class and the injury that I suffered on the first night. For the past two months, I've been hobbling around on a bum wheel. My left heel has been the source of shooting pain, making it impossible for me to sport any sort of Summer footwear. This is the first Summer that my glorious tootsies haven't been bronzed due to exposure from wearing sandals, flip flops and the ever trashy, going barefoot. I have been seeking comfort with orthopedic insert packed running shoes, which is ironic, since the last time I ran was 1977. A few weeks ago I decided to let pain trump pride and sought the opinion of a podiatrist.

I love doctors. ( Sarcasm doesn't translate to the written word, but know that the narrator in my head has quite the sarcastic tone.) After pushing on the affected area repeatedly, eliciting yelps from me usually reserved for small dogs, the foot doc gave me a tentative prognosis of plantar fasciitis. "We should make sure though", Doctor Sholl wavered and then ordered an MRI. Turns out that crazy magnet found a torn ligament running from my heel to the middle of my foot. I'm always happy when something I'm complaining about turns out to be a real injury. I'm not happy to be injured of course, just glad that my sniveling is justified.

As I sat in a podiatric Lazy Boy after being given the MRI results, the doc asked "how are you with shots?" There were so many ways I could have answered that question. Did he mean injections, taking a punch or my well known affinity and friendship with Jose Cuervo? I erred on the side of caution and crafted my response toward the injection. I've never had a problem with shots, even when long needles were being pushed into my spine, but I had no idea what I was about to face. Doctor Heelandtoe produced a large syringe filled with cortisone and after spraying my heel with something Mr. Freeze must have thrown away after a Batman movie, jammed the neddle in. I fought the urge to take my good leg and toss a roundhouse kick his way and after about 127 minutes (it may have been shorter, but time slows when you're under duress) , the injection was complete. Then came "the boot".

If you've never seen one of these so called "walking casts", look at the picture at the top of the column. Can you see it? Good. It's a combination, Frankenstein/Gene Simmons/bondage piece of footwear. It's a strappy little open toed number, fashionably black to compliment my evening wear. I have to slide my foot in and then bind my leg with so many Velcro straps that NASA is sending me a bill. The sole of this contraption is curved in such a way that my weight is supposedly dispersed off my injured ligament. That may be true, but now I'm limping around, dragging this plastic monstrosity. My heel may be healing, but wearing a giant shock absorber is wreaking havoc on my knee and back. It must be some kind of medical conspiracy that ensures a patient will be in constant need of attention by creating a vicious circle of treatments that feed off each other.

I have to go strap in and head off for my culture fix with an egg roll chaser. Don't laugh if you see me limp by. I may not be able to run, but I can still chase you down with my car. Later...Brian