Distant Thunder
At the beginning of quarantine our bar closed, so my buddy Ed and I displaced our Tap House activity into healthy Saturday afternoon walking activity. Our first hike was an epic four-miler. The next week was three-ish miles. So I was getting around just fine. Then puttering around the house one day I noticed my right achilles was a little sore. No biggie, didn’t really think about it any further.
One fine Tuesday afternoon I decided to do the river loop – west along the north side of the river, cross the Booth St Bridge, then up the hill and back east through Old Southwest. I was finally the proud possessor of a face mask! Martha had mailed me an N-95-ish mask, and this was my first time out of the house since I got it!
Its features as a COVID-stopper may be great, but its usability is pretty poor. Like any mask, working up a sweat with it on is stuffy and fogs the glasses. But it’s a “hard-shell” mask, so it doesn’t stuff it in a pocket very well. At the California St Overlook I tried to do that anyway, and about two steps later it apparently fell out.
So I walked an extra mile or so back to the Overlook to recover it because I was well into Old Southwest before noticing my brand new wasn’t in my pocket! You know the drill – retracing your steps to recover something, and every time you round a corner you scan for that thing on the ground. All thre potential items turned pout to be street litter, all the way back to … 12 feet from where I was sitting with the mask. Oh well…
No big deal really The point was to take a walk, and I certainly needed the extra exercise, but on this day I was limping and favoring that ankle pretty heavily by the time I got home.
In the next few days I stopped using the stairs because my heel was hurting more and more. I was walking less and less. However … when Sunday rolled around I was determined to get my Sunday paper. This seemed like the day to get my walking life back on track! I started out on the easy four block walk to the corner market(*) at 2nd and West to get my damn Chronicle!
(*) I call it the ghetto mart, but I’ve noticed that the sophisticates call it a bodega, which is way cooler because you have solidarity with AOC, but somehow that isn’t me.
As I limped past the basketball courts, almost to Arlington St., I pushed off a little to kick an errant ball back to the courts and I felt that horrible POP, where it feels like somebody kicked you in the heel, but of course nobody did. I just tore my achilles tendon. Fuck!
I spent the whole next week doing my best to rehabilitate myself – elevating and icing and flexing. I was recommended a homeopathic cream (Traumeel) which I rubbed in a few times a day. Ed lent my his great ice pack, and I earnestly collecting advice from friends and family.
On Wednesday I hobbled to my pacemaker appointment. Details of this exciting visit in the previous post.
I can’t walk very far or very well, but I told myself the heel was getting better and I would be back to normal soon.
But then … the next Sunday I drove to the market to get my paper, and walking back to the van I tripped on a little bump and it POPPED again. Double fuck! Now I am truly unhappy. My week of optimistic self-therapy has been for naught, a total FAIL.
God I feel old. God my body is falling apart. I can’t do anything. God I hate this.
Tuesday at the walk-in clinic
I spent Monday feeling sorry for myself and stewing about my predicament.
On Tuesday morning I finally looked at the Reno Orthopedic (ROC) website and discover that they have a walk-in clinic! Woo!
I finish breakfast and head straight up there. The ROC building is undergoing major construction. All business happens at the North Entrance. I parked, put on my mask, and hobbled up the street and to the admissions table, set up outside. They took my temperature and my name and told me to take a seat on the handy retaining wall that runs the length of the building.
It all worked amazingly well. I was in the building at the actual admittance desk in 12 minutes, and seeing the physical therapist in another 10 minutes.
The plan was to get me an MRI until I happened to mention my brand new pacemaker. Can’t do that with a pacemaker. My PT person went out to consult and returned with the resident nurse practitioner. She had a little portable sonogram, and they gave that a whirl. I don’t think it showed much, because they still could not give me any kind of definitive answers on WTF is going on.
Their best guess was I had a achilles tear. The book on that is to wear the boot for 8 weeks and hope you’re fixed. They were pretty sure I did not have a rupture. But they gave me the option of an appointment with the doctor in a couple of days to make sure. I almost decided not to bother, but decided to go for it just to be sure.
They sent me home with a boot. A ridiculous contraption that keep the lower leg immobile. She recommends I wear it all the time, even in bed!
I can still drive by taking it off in the car and driving in sock feet. That’s how I get myself home. I’m glad I made the appointment to see the real foot doctor just to know for sure.
Thursday with the Foot Doctor
Despite their recommendation, I do not sleep in the ridiculous boot. I do wear it pretty much all day otherwise.
On doctor day, I strap up, ride the elevator downstairs, get in the van, unstrap, drive six block to the clinic, park in the official clinic parking lot which I’ve walked past many times but never been able to use before. They do a COVID screening in the car at the entrance to the parking lot, then I park and wait. Soon I get a knock on the window that the doctor will see me. I strap up and get a ride 100 yards in their electric golf cart to the North Entrance.
Dr Lundeen has me lay face down on the table with my feet hanging out, which I now know is the classic achilles examining position. I settle in for a long examination, but after about 15 seconds he tells me to sit back up, because his magic, veteran fingers detect that I have a rupture and need surgery. Triple fuck!
Not what I’d planned. The only good news is that they want to to it quickly, because the longer it heals, the messier it is to take it apart and put it back together. So, I strap up and hobble back to the parking lot – no golf cart available, unstrap and drive home, then strap up and take the elevator to my place to begin a weird five-day pre-op zombie period where I just exist doing nothing while waiting for the operation.
This would be really annoying in regular times, but during COVID, it’s not that much different than my regular life with two good legs!
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