Orthopedics and Podiatry

The ballerinas are there to inspire us, the podiatry patients. There is a photo in the other room of someone rappelling from the top of the mouth of a cave. Someone here has a wicked sense of humor. It’s like the old punch line, “But will I be able to play the violin?” (Only if you could play it before...).  It’s broken. We say fracture. It is a stable fracture. My ankle. My precious aching bone. I waited about as long as I could before going in for the xray. Pre-Covid, I would have been there within an hour of the fall, but, well, you know. As we were leaving the house I had a complete sobbing breakdown, terrified of taking us to the doors of hell, sure I was going to be responsible for Mr S getting sick, for me getting sick. We, who have been so careful, were now going to march right in there and breathe death fumes. I’m over the edge, gasping, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

Turns out the clinic wasn’t so bad. Of course they screened people, we all wore masks, it seemed well thought out and careful. First to radiology, then to the doctor, then across town to the podiatrist. We were away from home for nearly four hours. It’s been a month since we’ve been gone that long, or that far from the house, maybe ten miles. 

So I have a boot. For six weeks. It’s comfortable, and not comfortable. I am so relieved to know what’s happening. No more spending all day deciding and re-deciding about going in to the clinic. I’ve got some pain, I’ve got a diagnosis, I’ve got a boot and a timeline. And I’ve got Mr S, who luckily is a fabulous cook with the patience of several saints. He’s my secret weapon, and when this is over I will play the violin for him.