Ouch and Ouchey

I've been hearing about foot injuries in recent weeks. I refuse to accept that it has anything to do with our shoes.

La Latina bemoaned the state of one of her feet. She thought she might have a stress fracture somewhere across her instep. Ouch. Or as she might say, "Ouch-ey."

She asked if any of us could recommend a podiatrist or an orthopedic surgeon.

I phoned her and told her the story of the orthopedic surgeon who treated me for plantar fasciitis in 1993 - after I ran the New York City Marathon. Running was my habit, but the pain in my right heel grew until I walked with a noticeable limp. Excruciating pain stabbed the bottom of my foot when I got out of bed in the mornings.

I remember the doctor's office. I didn't wait long before a nurse called me in to the examination room. I vaguely recall that the waiting room didn't contain the usual stack of celebrity magazines. I do recall posters or plaques from some of the New Jersey Nets players, his patients. That looked good.

When I climbed up on the examination table, the doctor took my foot in his hands. He pressed the area where the heel connects to the arch, and I almost jumped through the ceiling. I think I yelped at least one expletive.

"Plantar fasciitis," he said.

Then I heard, "Fuck, shit, cunt." He uttered the words, sotto voce, but rapid-fire.

I twitched my head a fraction of an inch, and looked over to the nurse, thinking, "What did he just...?"

The doctor continued, "Yes, you have a stressed tendon. I can give you a cortisone shot now to ease the pain, but you will have to be fitted for orthotics. Shit. Motherfucker. Cunt."

I guess the Emily Post training of my youth snapped into gear. I had no idea why the doctor was using foul language - while describing my foot. Were my feet that offensive? I didn't think so. I glanced again at the nurse, who appeared nothing but placid, undisturbed.  I figured something else was at hand, something beyond my immediate comprehension.

I agreed to the cortisone shot - which was pure torture. The doctor stuck a huge needle right into the flat of my heel. I think I hissed "Yeeeeesh," and dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Somehow, I didn't want to scream another cuss word.

The doctor, however, reeled them off one after the other.

After the needle therapy, after the burning sensation, and then the numbness, I walked back into the waiting room. This time I spied pamphlets, brochures. Every one of them described Tourette Syndrome, "How to live with Tourette Syndrome."

Who knew? Why didn't someone just come out and say so?

The doctor had Tourette's. In the weeks after, he fit me for orthotics - he told me I had "floppy feet" - and in time, the pain subsided. I still run today, though not as much. And many times when I slip the orthotics into my running shoes, I think of the doctor's speech tics.

I told all of this to La Latina. And in good conscience, I told her, I thought maybe she might prefer some other doctor. She agreed.

A week later, she found and visited an orthopedic surgeon who explained that she did not have a stress fracture, but that she had a serious strain of the soft tissue in her foot. He prescribed a wrap of sorts, something to keep her foot immobilized for a while.

In this go-go city, anything that hampers movement of the lower extremities is a burden, born with aggravation at best and full-on screams at worst. We walk everywhere. We wear heels. We dance in high heels. We run to the gym, we run on treadmills in the gym.

In the case of La Latina, her kick-boxing routine was curtailed. I'm sure she's getting itchy, impatient.

Heck, I can hear her now. ""Motherfucker, shit, fuck." And that ain't from no Tourette's speech tic.

Comments

[La Latina]

The funny thing is that my podiatrist is very shy. So on my first visit, I got a little concern when he wasn't saying much, just looking at my foot. I kept thinking "If this guys starts cursing, I will crack up in his face!" And that is not the best way to start a relationship with the guy that may put your foot in a cast!