I have, or rather had, this pesky little thing in my right foot called Morton’s Neuroma. Essentially, it means I had a scarred nerve between my third and fourth toes.
And what that really means is that, especially as time went on, whenever I would do any kind of exercise, spend any length of time on my feet, or wear any kind of pretty shoes, I would get anything from an aching discomfort to a sharp shooting pain that would cause me to scream out loud and be afraid to walk.
For the past four years, I was able to “manage” it with an occasional cortisone shot and a lot of ibuprofen. But on my last visit to my orthopedic surgeon, he warned me that further cortisone shots could erode the fat pad on my foot, and that would cause a whole host of other issues.
Now, I’d usually jump on the “erode the fat” bandwagon. I mean, isn’t that why I run? But, what he said made sense. And at this juncture (I love that expression – it reminds me of one of my law school professors), my only two options were to either live with it, or to have surgery.
At first, neither seemed very desirable. Cut me open? I’m so squeamish about these things. Oh, good. You’re going to put me to sleep so I don’t have to watch. Waaaaaaaait a minute. It’s a stupid foot. This is not life or death. And I have never had general anesthesia. He told me that I could also have a nerve block and light sedation, although people around these parts tend to go for the full anesthesia. After he described the surgery and recovery, I easily made my mind up. I would have the surgery. It was just a matter of scheduling.
I had a few factors in schedule. First, I wanted to get it done as soon as possible. My foot had really been bothering me for some weeks already, and I knew it would only get worse. Second, I wanted to make sure to have enough time to recover, so that I could train for the Half Marathon again (because I am crazy like that). And third, because I would not be able to drive for a week, I needed to find a time when someone could do it for me. So I chose the Friday before Thanksgiving. And luckily, there was an open spot.
The few days before the surgery, I was running around trying to get all the things I wouldn’t be able to do when I couldn’t drive myself. And one of those things was to get my last pedicure. I knew it would be a while before my surgically scarred foot would be able to be pampered. And all I could do was to get my nails buffed (polish is not allowed in surgery). [Mi amore teased me that I was making my feet pretty for the doctor, much like we do a little landscaping before childbirth.] But I relished the massage, and knew I wouldn’t be back for a while.
In real preparation for my surgery there were only a few things I had to do. First, wash my foot with anti bacterial soap the night before and morning of. Second, stop eating at midnight the night before. And third, stop drinking at 8:00 the morning of the surgery. First lesson: schedule your surgery for first thing in the morning. Otherwise, you wander around all morning in a daze, wishing you could eat, and trying to pass the time without thinking about how hungry you are.
Second lesson: don’t operate heavy machinery when you are hungry and nervous about your surgery. In a routine morning drive to drop of la petite at school, I turned a corner to sharply and POPPED a tire. It turns out, I was in need of a new set of tires anyway, but this was NOT the day to have to deal with it.
We (mi amore and I) arrived at the surgery center at 11. Everything was really smooth and not stressful. Because the last thing you want to do is have extra stress when someone is about to cut you open. Eventually, I was led into the pre-op room, where a nurse took my vitals, gave me some meds, and handed me the ever sexy hospital gown, plus a bag to put my clothes in. The latter seemed a little prison-like. And yes, it took me two tries to figure out where the damn gown tied. I later over heard someone asking about the same thing. So it wasn’t just me.
And then I sat down, took out my newspaper and waited. My first guest was the anesthesiologist. He pricked and prodded, put in the IV and off we went. At first it was just fluids – thank god. But then I worried what would happen if I had to pee. Luckily, I didn’t. Another one of his anesthesia friends showed up. They made some jokes, and put me at ease. And I felt better knowing there were two of them, hoping they both would be paying attention to my well being.
Another nurse came by, checked on me, and then my doctor showed up. Wow! That was fast. I had been told he was in another surgery and we had to wait for him.
He talked to me again about what would happen. [This is paraphrasing, in my very non-medical knowledge]. He would go into my foot, move the ligament, examine the nerve. If he saw the neuroma, he would remove it. If there was no neuroma, it would mean that there was something else causing all this pain, and the ligament was the culprit, so it would be cut. Ack! Cut! He assured me it was a “leftover,” back from the day when we used to crochet with our toes.
Mi amore came in. I told him to go get lunch. Two of us hungry would be a bad idea. And then the sedation began. I said it felt as if I had just taken off my glasses, and things were a little fuzzy.
The next thing I remember was the nurse standing next to me saying, “You’re done!”
Next … the recovery
