8/5/2020
Almost sorry the pain is almost gone. It has been over a week. Woke up with a stabbing pain in my left big toe. What the fuck did I do? It didn't look that bad but, it felt like I kicked the corner of my metal bed frame and tried to cool it off with boiling water. I did do laundry the day before. A funny step while wearing flip-flops. It was like the veins in my foot caught on fire. Drop a match on the gas, flames fly through and then it was gone. Back to laundry. Wash, dry, fold and forget about it. Until the morning. Woke up and the foot-fire had rekindled.
It’s been almost 4 months since coronavirus crippled work. I had become over-disciplined with my at home exercise routine of push-ups, sit-ups, 4 mile run and then take my book and lunch for a bike ride. "Don’t waste a day”, my motivation and mantra. Then the days start to settle like the dust on the coffee table. You stop looking at it until you have do something.
Doing jumping jacks in the kitchen, this hurts more than it helps. Skip the run and the rest. That night there’s no sleep, just me and my toe having a heart-to-heart in the wee small hours. My new state-purchased health insurance is surprisingly easy. The helpful lunch lady voice on the staticky phone line schedules me an appointment for that morning. I loosen the laces of my sneaker, gently put my foot in and limp my way to figure this out.
The nurse practitioner is pretty, I think. She’s wearing a pastel pink mask. Mine is light blue. His and hers. This could be a gender reveal party. My feet are just over the edge of the tissue paper on the medical exam table. She’s tapping my toes looking for pain. This little piggy.... On a scale of 1 of to 10 how ridiculous do you feel? She actually said “how much does this hurt”. Then she reads me the menu: craft beer IPAs? Shellfish? Dry aged meats? It sounds delicious. Put it all on a boat and its a lot of Facebook and Instagram pictures I’ve seen from my coffee table. I recite the heavy rotation of my dinners: Pork cutlets; ravioli with marinara; sausages & broccoli rabe; vinegar chicken thighs; steak on Friday. I’m a 5 a day fruit eater, even more in the summer. Vegetables too. Trying not to be defensive I admit to the beer. I love IPAs. The bitter blend of pine and citrus. The art on the cans from the local breweries. Sometimes the ones from Chicago when I’m nostalgic about work-trips.
They say you get gout from “too much good living. I haven’t been living that well", I say to the eyes above the pink mask about the shame I'm feeling from her matter-of-fact diagnosis. “Holiday Big Toe” she piles on. She then comforts and informs me that it doesn’t deserve it's gluttonous reputation. Then she adds the science: acid levels, dehydration, stress....”Maybe”, I shrug. I’d still prefer it be my self diagnosed "Flip Flop Toe”. Get the blood work, get the prescription, get home.
My quarantine routine has been crushed. Like the ice on my foot the swelling is slow to go but its going. The pain wanes. It ate up a week. The emails with the nurse were a new distraction. Teaching myself about white blood cells and acid levels brought me back to 8th grade. But, the excuse to abandon my mantra and waste days wasn’t a waste. A perspective I might’ve missed. A much needed reminder. The pavement is hard but it’s a lot harder for a lot of people. Appreciate each step but it’s not necessary to count them all.
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