My right big toe is in pretty much constant pain, varying from low level to limp level. High heels are out of the question now. Back in May, I gave away all my highest heels, preserving only a few less vertiginous favourites. Still, I can’t actually wear any of those shoes or boots that I held in reserve, because I can’t bear the agony. I can run though, without excessive pain. Which is brilliant. Also, the reason I haven’t done anything more than a couple of cortisone shots and orthotics to alleviate my toe situation. Until now.
Because I’ve started to notice other small, and troublesome, tweaky pains and imbalances, which I’m guessing are related to all the micro adjustments I make all the time to evade the pain in my toe. Tightness in my left lower back. A weird discomfort in my right thigh muscle. Strange weakness in my psoas when I take first steps into a run. You get the picture. As hard as I try not to adjust my gait, I know that’s impossible. I remember my mother being wildly insulted when an acupuncturist commented on her limp (the result of a fall that shattered her pelvis and shoulder). Meanwhile, I was surprised that she wasn’t aware of her limp. All to say, I know that my gait is not right, even if I think I’m walking “normally.” And then I imagine how much that gait distortion is magnified over the miles of running I still do.
Yes, I could stop running completely. That would go a long way to alleviate the pain. But I’d also have to cut out long walks, hiking, cross country skiing and snowshoeing. I’m not ready. I am resisting the urge to elaborate on the hundred ways giving up these outdoor communions with nature and my body are essential. I’ll just say this: These activities and ways of being are intrinsic to my wellbeing. Especially (!) as I navigate my aloneness, which I’ve been exploring of late (here, here and here).
My foot doctor has offered me a solution. Not the one I expected. He has recently developed a new bunion surgery. I hoped it would be for me. I was ruled out immediately, because I also have arthritis in the same toe. And he told me that neither the bunion, nor the arthritis were likely the source of my pain. I apparently have some protruding bone on my toe joint, some of which has broken off and is floating, which obstructs my ability to bend my toe. Causing pain, and, of course, inflammation, causing further pain. A vicious cycle. You get the picture. Because, yes, I am constantly bending my toe. It is one of those movements intrinsic to much of human movement.
Minimally Invasive Cheilectomy. That’s the name of the surgery. It’s not covered by my insurance. Because in the United States, pain is not considered a good enough reason for a procedure. Alleviating pain is only for those who can afford it. Which I can. With some significant sacrifice. And it’s worth it, because, well, intrinsic to my wellbeing and human movement and all that. I recognize that I am lucky to be able to make a choice to prioritize the surgery.
I’m scared, too. What if it doesn’t work? What if I spent the money for nothing? The pain persists and I can’t do the activities that support my wellbeing and elevate my solitude. Even if the surgery works, complications could arise related to my auto-immune condition, Addison’s Disease. I need to work out the correct stress dosing of hydrocortisone between my endocrinologist and foot doctor. That feels daunting.
Undertaking this procedure alone is scary. The little girl who still lives inside me wants someone to hold her hand on the way there and on the way home. The last time I had foot surgery, I came out the other side of the anesthesia to my partner picking me up and hanging out with me during my recovery. Of course, I can get home in an uber on my own and order in food. Plus, no one will have to endure my worried freak outs about the surgery. Or my restless homebound agitation. I can meltdown to exhaustion, without bothering anyone. Except me. Still, this all taps into a latent fear of dying alone in my apartment and no one finding me for weeks.
Oof. That’s a lot. Thank you for allowing me to share that.
Now that I’ve put all these fears into words, on this page, it all feels more manageable. One step at a time (even if some of those steps are in a surgical boot).
