Here we are again, our time together has come once more. Even though I make it look otherwise, it isn’t easy to find eclectic subjects to write about every two weeks. Oh sure, I can always find something run-of-the-mill to ruminate on – how bad I feel, how my disease takes things from me, the misery of the previous two weeks, and maybe even the bad decisions I’ve paid the price for. The trick is coming up with something besides those usual gripes to talk about that you, my readers, might actually care about. Usually, something happens to me in the fourteen days between columns, so I get lucky. These past two weeks have been uneventful, though, so I have to resort to telling you about the latest fiasco with my ankle replacement. I implore you to bear with me and promise that as soon as aliens land in my back yard or my head falls off, I will share it with you posthaste.
tly had my ankle replaced. I was basically walking on the side of my right foot before the operation, and I was supposed to be walking flat after the procedure. It didn’t work out that way, though, and my ankle was still twisted under. Granted, I was not as bad as I was before I went under the knife, but the deformity was still noticeable. Ever the optimist, I told myself that my physical therapist would be able to help me to push the ankle the rest of the way flat. Unfortunately, after months of PT, the ankle is still not where it should be. So, on the advice of my therapist who I trust implicitly, I went to see someone to have a brace and an orthotic made. For those laymen among you, this meant I was going to have a device made to wear at night, and one made to wear during the day inside my shoe that would help force the ankle flat.