I just had surgery and I need some sympathy. Oh, I am feeling fine, all went well in the operating room, but I barely survived the whole thing. Why am I so unhappy? Well, sit down, honey, and let me tell you.
It all started one day when I had this terrible pain in my foot, just where my big toe connects to my foot. It was pretty bad, so my doctor referred me to a specialist—a podiatric surgeon.
I called to make an appointment with this new foot doctor guy. In fact all the doctors in this medical group were foot doctors. There was even a great big picture of a foot on the card right next to the phone number. I felt confident that my foot would soon be in good hands, if that makes sense.
When I called and said I needed to make an appointment, the receptionist asked me why I needed to see the doctor. “Well”, I replied a bit skeptically, “because I am having trouble with my foot.” She then asked, without hesitation, “What is wrong with it?” If I knew that, I wouldn't have to call, I thought to myself. “It hurts right where the big toe is connected to the foot” I answered obediently and without any sarcasm. I guess I passed the test because she finally let me have an appointment. That’s when the real fun began.
I showed up at the receptionist desk. My foot was really killing me that day. She instructed me to go sit down. The waiting room was packed. There were at least 20 chairs, but the only vacant seat was at the rear of the waiting room. I hobbled over and took a seat. Not 60 seconds went by before the receptionist started bellowing my name while waving a clip board in the air. I got up and traipsed across the room to the front desk. “I need your insurance card,” she said. As I made my way back to my chair to retrieve my insurance card, I wondered if I was being unreasonable to think that it might have been nice if she had asked me about my card when I checked in or at least before I found my chair in the Siberia section of the waiting room. I returned only to be asked to fill out a "few papers".
I again returned to my seat and began to fill out a stack of sheets attached to a clip board. By the way, to call this a “few papers” would be like referring to the Bible as a pamphlet.
“My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited.”
“Why are you here today to see the doctor?” was the first question. “For a shampoo and blow dry, of course!”, I was dying to say. But I was good, and wrote “FOOT PAIN”. The questionnaire went on to ask me about everything ranging from diarrhea to insanity in my family. I went ahead and answered, but I wasn’t quite sure what my bowels and my crazy uncle Louie had to do with my foot.
I finally finished, but I was pooped and my foot was throbbing. I caught the eye of the receptionist and hoped that I could get her 30-year-old butt out of her seat to retrieve my clipboard. Of course not. She probably did 45 minutes of cardio-aerobics after work the night before, but would not think of walking across the waiting room so I wouldn’t have to get up again.
Now here is when I started to get cranky. My appointment was at 10. It was now 11 and I still hadn’t been called. I waited… and waited. Finally, the door from the inner sanctum opened up and I heard my name announced! Listen, I don’t mind waiting, and I know doctors overbook because people don’t show up. But, here is a hint for the medical community: If a patient is in a waiting room long enough to knit a sweater, it’s too long.
So, I am taken into a room where the walls are covered with charts of the human foot. There is a case of orthopedic shoes and Dr. Scholl’s products are on the shelves. Now we’re cooking! I am in FOOTLAND! Help is not far away.
The nurse comes in and wants to weigh me. WHY? Now I was not happy, but I didn’t want to wait another 2 hours to see the doctor, so I got on the scale and behaved myself. I didn’t even look when she kept tapping the little bar to get it to balance. Weighing only counts when you are naked.
She then had me sit on the examination table and began to ask questions. “So why are you here to see the doctor?”, she said without flinching. Well, let’s see, I am at a podiatrists office, I am sitting in a room decorated completely with medical drawings of feet… "I am here for my PAP smear" I replied. I was laughing, but she wasn’t. “My right foot has been giving me trouble”, I said. “Right where my big toe is joined to my foot.” She continued to write, never looking up. She got up and left and assured me the doctor would be right with me.
I waited some more. It’s not that the Arizona Highways they had there in the exam room is not a riveting magazine, but I was in pain and really wanted to get on with it.
Finally, my doctor came in. I was not the least bit concerned when I realized I have 2 kids older than him, but I was a little baffled when he asked me the reason for my visit. Did he not even read what the nurse wrote? Did she use invisible ink? I tried to remain calm. I needed his help and didn’t want to upset him.
“My foot hurts when I walk”. I pointed to the spot. The nurse came back in and wrote as the doctor pulled and poked at my poor little foot and dictated to her in medical talk. When he was finished, I asked him what was wrong. He told me that I had a condition that causes pain in my big toe right where it connects to my foot. “Really?”, I said.
Anyway, he was very nice and super smart. He broke the news that I had to have surgery and that I would have a big scar across my foot and toe. I was not too sad because I had abandoned the idea of being a foot model years ago. He also added that Shaquille O’Neill had the same operation to improve his game. Wow! Imagine that!
It all came out great; I am walking better every day. The whole thing was made infinitely better because after all was said and done; my doctor was fantastic and handsome, too. Now I am just waiting to be completely healed so I can see if I am now great at basketball. I’ll let you know.
