Well, after my MRI on Monday, I resigned myself to a waiting game while the radiologist perused the incomprehensible slices of my foot before distilling them into a written report for my esteemed podiatrist. Today, I ventured once more to my Podiatrist’s office to receive, hopefully, good news. Sadly I, like a horny teenager trapped in an nudist colony composed entirely of ponderously obese men, was destined for frustration and disappointment. I’d gone prepared to hear two kinds of diagnosis: that I mysteriously acquired a bad sprain, or that I’d horribly disfigured the contents of the fleshy attachment at the end of my leg and needed surgery.

Instead, I was informed of something in between. For I am now the proud owner of a ruptured tendon in my ankle, a damaged ligament between my tibia and fibula, and possibly some as yet undiscovered damage in one or more of my Peroneal tendons. I was presented with two courses of treatment: a full cast for two months, or surgical intervention, a cast for six to eight weeks, and a full course of physical therapy. The doctor’s personal evaluation of the casting option was rather disparaging, and I can’t imagine how a cast can reattach a damaged tendon. The other option being surgery introduces a completely new difficulty: my heart.

Any invasive intrusion into the human body with surgical instruments carries a certain amount of risk, but having a heart condition–or several, in my case–presents the unique risk of complications above and beyond what would be possible without them. I’m at higher risk of reacting to the anesthetics, more prone to endocarditis, and probably some other things I don’t know about. But feet are hardly a critical organ to survival, and complications can’t be nearly as prevalent as if I’d had a cardiac valve replacement–something I’ll likely need eventually thanks to my persistent systolic and diastolic murmurs–so really, I’ll be faced with much worse prospects and this is nothing in comparison.

But no matter what, my future includes a cast and probably a stint in physical therapy. Now I’m saddled with the task of getting my cardiologist involved so I’m a well coddled hot-potato, figure out how to tell work that I’m not going to commute for almost two hours in each direction while sporting a cast and hobbling around on crutches. This would be easier if we didn’t just hire a second DBA I’m tasked with training. Definitely living in interesting times, but this too shall pass.

Until Tomorrow

Maniacal Monopod
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