Bunions! 

 

 

Back on October 19th I had a surgery to correct a bunion.

Over the past couple of years, it’s become increasingly painful to wear shoes, and the swelling from the bunion caused reduced flexibility in my foot along with burning and aching if I stood for more than 3 hours. I couldn’t wear heels  at all.

Now, I deserve this bunion. It represents a handful years of dancing on feet bent in unnatural positions and more than a dozen years running back and forth serving assholes and stunners  like you drinks in strip-bars, gay clubs and dive-bars. I have insurance now so I, with urging, decided to have my foot-golum corrected.

There exist a  few different surgeries to correct bunions. One’s mostly cosmetic and involves shaving down the Sticky-out-y bit we generally associate with bunions. I didn’t have that one. In the  particular surgery I had ( called an Osteotomy) the surgeon  basically cuts your toe in half and pins it back together. Basically. I’m not a foot-scientist,nor am I going to deprive you of the joy of googling the procedure. I went into the whole thing thinking I’d be *healed up in about three weeks, and just go back to work. LOLNO

I won’t be able to go back to standing on my feet all day until around the 7th, per Doctors orders.

The surgery only took about an hour: They put me to sleep, did the damn thing and I woke up about sixty minutes later, said some weird stuff and went home with drugs.  I don’t remember the rest of the afternoon, but I know My girl Sarah showed up later that night, slightly toasted after drinks with her dad, I put myself to sleep, and woke up the next day in a world of fucking pain, as if someone had sawed  my food open and filled it with hot shards of murder. Sarah and I drank coffee. I called my DR. and informed him that the drugs for pain (hydrocodone) were not stopping the burning murder-shards. He changed the drugs.  I stayed on pain-killers for two weeks, at which point I was literally sick of them and dying (not literally) to poop normally again. By that point (around the 1st), the swelling was gross, but the pain had died down, I followed up with my foot-scientist and he told me to come back in two more weeks and put me in a flat shoe and told me I still couldn’t drive.My soul begins to atrophy along with my muscles. I read a lot, I whine more.  I do one hundred foot-bendy exercises a day.Two weeks after that, (about 4 days ago) I went to another follow-up, and He tells me I can’t wear normal shoes yet, nor can I drive. I disagree, and now I’m stuffing my still weird-shaped foot into the only 3 pairs of shoes that fit; Uggs (stfu, Uggs are fine, we can stop hating them now) a pair of platform Tevas, and my solitary pair of Nike trainers. I’m driving. The joint in my toe isn’t activated by the activity. In short, I’m very glad I did this. At this point, the pain in the joint is less than it was before the surgery and it’s noticeably smaller.  I can walk now, with mild discomfort and many breaks. There’s no way in hell I could put in even a six-hour work day at this point, though. My doctor’s conservative estimate of my going back to work on the 7th-ish is totally valid. If you need bunion surgery, get it. Yes, it takes over a month to recover from: Admittedly, it hurts quite a lot while healing, but there’s a rod holding my Growing-back-together toe in place, FFS. The worst part of the whole thing is the solitude: The sitting with myself, the house, every day. The not being able to really go anywhere alone. That’s my problem . I can’t sit still or in stillness, but I learned to do so.

Alvin, if you’re reading this… I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Thankyouthankyou and I’m sorry I’ve been a whiney dick. You’re everything. A Bunn-ion, even.

My ass is asleep, you guys.

Bai

*heel pun here.

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Not your sacred Sad-girl.

dscn03561My generation seems to hold its sadness sacred and romantic. I’m one of those Millennials whose  adolescence held awkward court in the early 00’s.

We spent our teen years with Fallout Boy and As I lay Dying and in basements of our grandparents homes with Bob Dylan and Quiet Riot on Vinyl and in my case, hiding behind my insanely religious step-fathers shitty house listening to Nirvana on CDs borrowed from older friends who, in hindsight, someone really should have made sure I wasn’t alone with, but I’m wandering off topic. We started studying for SATS at 13. We went to therapists because our parents/guardians didn’t want us as emotionally inept as they were. We learned about sex in chat-rooms, lying about A/S/L.

We got good at talking about our feelings with people who might have been nothing like us. Somewhere along the way, for different reasons, we got really good at dying. Really good at falling in love with our own sadness and desperation and romanticizing the silver ribbons of scar-tissue on our wrists and upper-arms and thighs.

A decent portion of us left institutions of higher learning and fell into the dark maw of economic collapse because Fuck us, right?

We Stayed in the university towns we moved to and tended bars, went back to the places we were from and opened vintage stores and Occupied Wall Street. We went into our Fields and became Vegan leaders of today who participate in less damaging consumerism. We took Jobs in the Tech-sector and made shitloads of money we lovingly toss into burning man. We also became the new, Hip face of the Alt-right too, unfortunately, and a myriad of self-serving shitty things. We became adults who strive to make the world something it wasn’t when we arrived.  We done good for Hipster Scum, you know?

Maybe it’s  time to stop romanticizing our sadness for other people’s  consumption. I am not proud of the scars I walk around with, in the same way I’m not proud of the terrible Self-Tanner and Black-eyeliner and dresses over jeans  and liking Dane Cook. I want to shine brightly until I blink away, something I never thought I’d feel when I was younger.

As usual, I don’t have a suitable ending here.

I love you, scars and all.

D

 

A brief and not at all comprehensive list of nicknames

The following is a list of commonly used nicknames for our cat,in no order in particular. 

I’m responsible for nearly all of them. 

  1. Party-squirrel. 
  2. Fuzzy smudgens 
  3. Dr. Toes 
  4. Dr. Pants 
  5. Professor toez 
  6. The dark lord 
  7. Squirrelly-beans 
  8. BUN. (confusing, seeing as I also call Alvin this) 
  9. Asshole 
  10. Squishybeanz 
  11. Chubby-nubbins 
  12. His lordship 
  13. Puca 

You’re welcome, people of the internet. 

#gotosleep 

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