Perhaps one of the most frustrating things about post club feet is their variability, their unpredictability (though it's not so hard to predict they will only get worse over time.) What I mean by this is how one day the pain is tolerable, and the next? Who knows? It always seems to make anything I want to do, say, go to the park with my dogs, an adventure in calculations. "Let's see - if I go and walk just for ten minutes, then I will only need to prop up my feet with an ice pack for a half an hour tonight. But if I go over, tomorrow's gonna be a real bear. Hmm. What to do?" This is not unlike the dilemma faced by folks with arthritis. The very thought of getting to their feet is fraught with complexity. "I'll leave the door unlocked, so that when Martha drops by for a visit, I can just yell for her to come on in. But with all the crime in the world today, perhaps I shouldn't. OK, I'll just flip a coin..."
The same holds true for the level and the quality of the chronic and not-so-occasional sharp pain. That famous 1-10 scale? For us clubbies, it should start at 5, and go all the way to 25. Five is pretty much background noise. Seven is an uncomfortable day. Ten and up? Do not allow me to own a gun. No, I am not suicidal. Why would I want to use a gun on myself? But the next bozo that cuts in front of me and makes me stop short? or the joker of a bus driver who likes to hit the brakes or the gas when people are not even in a seat yet? or the next complete idiot who tries to dismiss my pain and disses me for having handicapped plates on my van? Yeah. It would be for them. That's why I don't want to own one. I simply do not wish to make the six-o'clock news, that's all.
Having one club foot stinks, but having two? Well, that's pretty special. Every time one gets a bit worse than the other, I can start limping to put more weight on the temporarily "good" foot to give the really bad doggie a rest. Then, several hours later, I can switch! What fun! It's like serial self-flagellation - well, that set of raw bleeding welts is starting to sting, so I better get to work on the other side. Oh, yes, that's the ticket!
And what about those shoes and orthotics, eh? Aren't they special? When they are new, I have to deal with the "break-in" period. Then, after several truly fun weeks getting "broken-in - not the orthotics, mind, but the feet,) I get maybe a month before there's enough wear on my shoes that the balance is once again off by, oh, I don't know - 1/2 a degree, maybe? And then, it all goes to pot again. So, to maintain anything remotely related to general comfort, I have to re-balance the soles of my shoes at least once a month. More money, more time - it's what I live for.
And what about those doctor's, hey? "Well, your x-rays look fine, they can't really hurt that bad. So, I can't give you a refill for your meds - don't want you getting addicted, you understand?" No. No I don't "understand." You see, Doc, it's like this - these feet? I am unfortunately addicted to THEM. So, pain meds help me break my addiction, at least temporarily. He ain't buying it! OK, I say, try to see it this way, Doc. I GET TO LIVE IN PAIN THE REST OF MY LIFE, REGARDLESS OF WHAT THOSE DAMN X-RAYS SUGGEST TO YOU, SO GIVE ME JUST ONE THING TO HELP ME GET SOME RELIEF!! Oh, I see - - you have no idea what to do? Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? I feel better already.
Well, sarcasm aside, I can't think there's a single clubby out there who does not hold the fervent desire to get just one day in their lives where they didn't have to even think one time about their feet. To do what they want to do, go where they like, and not once think, "well, I've already walked about a mile today, all told, so I think I might have a quarter mile left. What the hell, I'll take the chance." Sheesh, nice deal, eh? Who needs pain meds when you're having this much fun!?
The same holds true for the level and the quality of the chronic and not-so-occasional sharp pain. That famous 1-10 scale? For us clubbies, it should start at 5, and go all the way to 25. Five is pretty much background noise. Seven is an uncomfortable day. Ten and up? Do not allow me to own a gun. No, I am not suicidal. Why would I want to use a gun on myself? But the next bozo that cuts in front of me and makes me stop short? or the joker of a bus driver who likes to hit the brakes or the gas when people are not even in a seat yet? or the next complete idiot who tries to dismiss my pain and disses me for having handicapped plates on my van? Yeah. It would be for them. That's why I don't want to own one. I simply do not wish to make the six-o'clock news, that's all.
Having one club foot stinks, but having two? Well, that's pretty special. Every time one gets a bit worse than the other, I can start limping to put more weight on the temporarily "good" foot to give the really bad doggie a rest. Then, several hours later, I can switch! What fun! It's like serial self-flagellation - well, that set of raw bleeding welts is starting to sting, so I better get to work on the other side. Oh, yes, that's the ticket!
And what about those shoes and orthotics, eh? Aren't they special? When they are new, I have to deal with the "break-in" period. Then, after several truly fun weeks getting "broken-in - not the orthotics, mind, but the feet,) I get maybe a month before there's enough wear on my shoes that the balance is once again off by, oh, I don't know - 1/2 a degree, maybe? And then, it all goes to pot again. So, to maintain anything remotely related to general comfort, I have to re-balance the soles of my shoes at least once a month. More money, more time - it's what I live for.
And what about those doctor's, hey? "Well, your x-rays look fine, they can't really hurt that bad. So, I can't give you a refill for your meds - don't want you getting addicted, you understand?" No. No I don't "understand." You see, Doc, it's like this - these feet? I am unfortunately addicted to THEM. So, pain meds help me break my addiction, at least temporarily. He ain't buying it! OK, I say, try to see it this way, Doc. I GET TO LIVE IN PAIN THE REST OF MY LIFE, REGARDLESS OF WHAT THOSE DAMN X-RAYS SUGGEST TO YOU, SO GIVE ME JUST ONE THING TO HELP ME GET SOME RELIEF!! Oh, I see - - you have no idea what to do? Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? I feel better already.
Well, sarcasm aside, I can't think there's a single clubby out there who does not hold the fervent desire to get just one day in their lives where they didn't have to even think one time about their feet. To do what they want to do, go where they like, and not once think, "well, I've already walked about a mile today, all told, so I think I might have a quarter mile left. What the hell, I'll take the chance." Sheesh, nice deal, eh? Who needs pain meds when you're having this much fun!?
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