Flashes of Panic

I haven’t really brought up the part of this foot problem that really scares me. My mind wants to look away whenever I so much as think about it.

Immobilization. There, I said it. Four to six weeks in some sort of “walking cast” or other rigid appliance, holding my foot rigid from the ankle on down. In the worst-case scenario, I wear the infernal device 24/7, though the last time I was immobilized (four years ago,) I was granted little recesses to shower or swim. When I was freed, my ankle was so weak I couldn’t stand for long periods of time. (For “long” read, “ten minutes.”) It was a small victory when I could walk the quarter mile (or so) to work.

It was, frankly, hell. The only thing I can imagine worse than six weeks of immobilization is eight weeks of immobilization, and so on. If I’m lucky, I can arrange for it to happen during the hottest weeks of the summer. I hope it’s clear that’s sarcasm. Maybe if it’s a result of some surgical procedure I can get enough pills to render me cheerfully oblivious to the misery, but that’s never really been a winning strategy for me; I usually wind up just suffering in silence and biting anyone who comes near.

I’m concerned that there aren’t many routes left which don’t involve some level of immobilization, and the idea really turns my stomach.

Now playing: Waiting To Be from Spirit Touches Ground by Josh Clayton-Felt