She's Got Leg

One of the advertised goals of Mature Landscaping is to describe aging from a personal perspective, so that 1) those of you who are doing it in tandem with me can feel genuinely okay about yourselves, safe in the knowledge that, if it’s happening to somebody who publishes a blog on the internet, it’s got to be normal, and 2) those of you who have yet to participate in aging can look forward to it, confident that you’ve been warned.

Continuing the tradition of journalistic excellence in pursuit of that goal, we have embedded ourselves, at considerable risk, in an iconic twenty-year-old, 2200 sq. footer with a rusting For Sale sign out front, located in a typical middle class retirement destination in a third-world  Red State, slap in the middle of Fixed Income Hell…the front lines. It’s happening here first, folks, and, when it does, we’re bringing it to you.

Today, we’ll chronicle an under-reported phenomenon that’s widespread in my age group: the aging body has the ability to hurt itself doing absofrickin’lutely nothing whatsoever. And doctors will make it worse. 

[We at Mature Landscaping have issued a policy statement to the effect that we are unanimously in favor of healthcare reform, but we firmly believe that there ought to be some healthcare, first. We know our job is just to report the news as accurately as possible; we leave the conclusions up to you (and we’re the only news source that does. You’ll have an opportunity to make valued input at the end of this report)].

We…well, since I was by myself at the time, sadly…I was taking a shower the other day, doing nothing inappropriate or useful (staring blankly into space, momentarily unable to recall what I was supposed to be doing, and letting the hot water run low). I was standing perfectly still and my right Achilles tendon injured itself. Suddenly, for no reason, and with pain involved. I couldn’t even put my weight on that foot  without hot, stabbing pain shooting up my calf, so I did the usual Puritan thing and tried to ignore it for a few days…an approach that I remember working really well until I turned fifty-five, and one which I’ve applied with some degree of success to almost every physical condition except labor.

After about three weeks, when I’d gotten tired of limping pitifully and of receiving the kindly attention of my friends (and they’d begun to tire of giving it), I saw an ortho/sports medicine specialist who X-rayed the bone and used Doppler to rule out a blood clot. Then he sent me home with this honkin’ huge, heavy, awkward, black, rigid, ugly-ass, knee-high boot cast and told me to wear it 24 hours a day except in the shower for six weeks. Weeks. Six.

With help, I strapped in and took The Boot for a couple turns around the office, quickly ascertaining that the booted right leg was about three inches longer than the left one. And, that I couldn’t lift the booted leg high enough with each step to be sure I cleared the floor…at least not in anything approximating a gait that I’d want anyone to witness or that might propel me in an actual direction.  No matter what I tried, I drug the sole of the boot a little with each step. I hung. I tried swinging the booted leg out wide to the side, sort of like Chester in “Gunsmoke,” but that quickly caused a searing pain in my right hip. Doc said I could look for “a sneaker with a really thick sole” to even out the legs “so I could walk normally.”  Who makes a sneaker with a three-inch sole?!  For that matter, who the hell still calls them sneakers…a sports medicine doctor?! I knew right then that about the only time I was likely to be willing to wear The Boot was while I was IN the shower standing still and that compliance with this quack’s instructions guaranteed that I would fall and break a hip before I got to my car in the parking lot.

After the doctor had left the consulting room—apparently satisfied with having produced another grateful  patient on her way to a sure cure—I was left with the nurse who had brought me the paperwork and the invoice for The Boot.  I tried a few more steps, hung the boot up on the leg of doc’s swivel stool, and saved myself from a fatal fall by grabbing hold of the nurse. She was a tiny little blonde thing who popped gum and reminded me of…what’s that tiny little blonde’s name who played June Carter Cash in that movie called what’s-its-name? Once we unraveled ourselves, I tentatively suggested that I might not be able to cope with my new boot and asked if Nurse June had any suggestions.

 

June left the room and I heard her tell Doc (cue the sarcasm), “Hey, she don’t wanna wear the boot! (Inaudible grumble from invisible doctor.) Hey, I dunno, she just don’t like it, I reckon. Pop.” Doc wheels in, all 6’4” of him, looking severe in his lavender shirt, matching tie, and black crew cut (who’s his style consultant, honey?) and says, “What’s this I hear about you refusing to wear the boot?!? “

I took the boot. Yeah, I know, you wouldn’t have, but I am a passive-aggressive Southern female; we like to bide our time and lull our victims into a false sense of security before taking our revenge.

 

I practiced some additional hobbling techniques as I stumped snaggle-legged down the hall with my hands full of coat, scarf, purse, paperwork, and a shoe. At the checkout, a woman with below-average intelligence (remember, average is 100 in America and something less than that in South Carolina) pushed paperwork at me across one of those little two-inch wide shelves that have sliding glass and no space to write…without pushing a pen with it. She was multitasking on the phone, and I got no response to my request for a pen. So I had to drop all my stuff on the floor and do a high G maneuver to locate a pen in the bottom of my purse.  Which was on the floor. You’d be surprised how used we all are to bending our right knee whenever we want to.

I asked a another nurse who was passing by to assist me (nice gait; I'd already learned to admire that in people), but, instead of giving me any direct help, she asked my name and perfunctorily mumbled for my husband in the waiting room. He doesn’t like to admit that he’s got a teensy hearing loss issue. Nurse Two, she of the very visible Harley tattoo,  gave the effort a full 2.5 seconds before marching past, saying she did not have time to spend searching for people's lost husbands. I can only conclude that everybody who comes to this particular medical office is of sound body and that there’s a real shortage of qualified nurses in our town. 

My darling husband, who usually does display above-average intelligence, suggested on the way home from the doctor’s office that he could maybe help me look for a pair of those black, 3 inch platform flip-flops he’s seen women wear. The high today is about thirty-five degrees here. It makes him nervous when the world plays All-Encompassing Ass Clown with me, and I think it interferes with his mental processing.

Yet, all’s well that ends well. I’m happy to report that, after putting the boot in the garage 24 hours a day (except when I was in the shower), after a few days my leg felt better.
 

So, help me with this.  Which would you do?

(a)    Return the boot right away, unused, just a few days after being given it, and ask the doctor’s helpful staff to arrange a reimbursement from the manufacturer…maybe limp into the office in hopes that the genius who signed me out would take pity on me…in full and deluded expectation that this doctor, or any other in this town, would ever be willing to treat me again.

(b)   Do something more creative with it.  Go ahead and suggest something. I dare you.

[image: nordstrom.com]