Say Goodbye to the Sidecar

The reality of what I am about to do doesn’t really truly sink in until the nurse leads me into the operating room. Here, an anesthesiologist asks me a few cursory questions before directing me to the operating table.

My entire body is shaking, until he gently slides the needle into my wrist and the sedative begins to take effect.

I am here for a bunionectomy, hammertoe correction and the repair of my dislocated second toe.  I am not under a general anesthetic so I am awake as two surgeons go to work on my beleaguered right foot.

I am saying goodbye to my “sidecar” as one of my friends so lovingly puts it.  She’s right though.  It’s a bigger bunion than most I have seen.  A lot of people don’t believe me until I strip my sock off and reveal the abnormal bone growth that protrudes from just under my big toe.  My hammertoe doesn’t help in the aesthetics department either.  A corn sits on the top of it like an ugly, fleshy crown.  Their eyes grow wide and their expressions often change from surprise to barely hidden disgust.

My foot probably belongs in a sideshow carnival.

So, a week ago, when the foot doc said he had a cancelation, I took it.  Now, lying on a sterile operating table I wonder what I was thinking. 

The anesthetic works similar to getting a filling at the dentist.  I can hear and “feel” tugging on my foot, but nothing else. 

It’s quiet for some time.  Until they go to work on my bunion.  Suddenly, I hear the most gruesome sound.  Through my drug-saturated mind, I think I hear the neighbor’s power tools.  Hmm.  He must be building that shed, I think.  Then I realize it’s not the neighbor, it’s my doctor, and he does have some kind of power tool, but one made for sawing off bone.  My foot is moving, and the high-pitched whine of the tool fills the room.  I close my eyes and try to think of something else, but it doesn’t work.  The awful sound fills my head like a gigantic bumblebee.

I’m desperate for some reassurance.  So I try and turn my head to make eye contact with the nurse or the anesthesiologist (who looks like, out of my peripheral vision, is reading a magazine and drinking a coffee).  To my relief, and after what feels like hours, the room goes quiet again.  What are they doing to my foot now? I think.  That’s when I feel the most dreadful pain above my calf muscle.  I communicate this to the nurse, who tells me it’s the tourniquet they tie there to reduce blood flow to the foot.  It’s excruciating.  She says the surgery went longer than expected, (almost 45 minutes longer), and the pain will disappear soon. Eventually, it does subside.

When they are done, the doctor asks me to look at his handy work.  I lift my head off the table and peer, bleary-eyed, down at my foot.  It looks like some sort of Frankenstein creation.  Three lines of stitching run length-wise from my toes down to the middle of my foot.  I lean my head back down and try and absorb this while they wrap it up. 

I won’t see my foot again for six to eight weeks.  Nor will I be able to put any weight on it. 

In recovery, the nurse brings out a large, black walking boot and sets my foot inside it. I smirk inwardly thinking of Anakin Skywalker and his Darth Vader transformation operation. 

She is giving me instructions, but I barely remember who I am, let alone what I should and should not be doing with my foot. 

The doctor comes in and shows me a picture of the inside of my foot and is telling me something about the surgery.  I try to focus on the image, but it keeps looking like raw roast beef. 

Later, I am transported to my husband’s truck and loaded into the back like a sack of potatoes.  There I lay for an hour while he tries to avoid potholes and sudden stops and starts.

Finally, we arrive home and he helps me up the stairs and into bed.  I’m still a little stunned by the events of the day, and stare blankly at the TV.  I can only hope that this was a good decision and that regret will not surface.  So I remind myself that long-term, I will reap the benefits of taking care of myself in my (mostly) younger years.  I think of my plan to celebrate my 40^th birthday standing on top of a mountain, and suddenly I feel that all the pain I know I’m going to have in the next few days and weeks is going to be worth it. The benefits will outweigh the short-term pain and mobility issues.

My family is flitting in and out of the room, asking if I need this or if they can do that. It is a foreign feeling to be doted on and I am so thankful to have them in my life. I settle my head back onto the pillow and close my eyes.  Let the healing begin.