Turns out there was no "freak bone" in my foot once the doc got in there. But the tears in my brevis and longus tendons? Much more considerable than the MRI let on. Let this be a lesson to all of you: MRI machines are dirty liars.
Even though every meth head in the world might disagree with this sentence I'm saying it anyway. Devouring strawberry Hostess cupcakes while downing Tylenol with cocaine every four hours (ok, it's Percocet, but it's in the same drug class as crack!) does actually get old after three weeks. (It is interesting to note that it's the inhalation of strawberry Hostess cupcakes that go me into this pickle in the first place. The cupcakes made me fat, which made me run, which tore my stupid tendons.)
I spent the first two weeks in THIS:
And then last week graduated to this:
I was excited to get the Neato Blue Cast before I had it but now I can't wait to get the Stupid Ten Ton Brick off on Monday as planned. It's coming off if my doctor knows what's good for him. Every time I get up on my crutches the weight of the thing seems to slam down on my incision. It does NOT feel good and makes me say naughty words in front of my daughter. I'm having these sharp stabbing pains along where my incision presumably is that makes me worry it's dehiscing. I don't have access to it to do a proper nursing assessment so I'm freaking out even more. I've made a few calls to my doctor's office about my cast being too loose but the nurse there was obviously annoyed with me and told in few words to DEAL WITH IT. I have now gone five days without calling them. I deserve a medal. It bears repeating: nurses make terrible patients.
So here are before and after pics of my actual foot. They're gross! You've been warned!
The yellow is betadine, not a horrible toenail fungus. (And NICU nurses reading this, please stop checking out the veins on my foot.)
(At one week post-op.)
So to bleach your brain after seeing that, here is a picture of my adorable nephew.
And the cake pops that his mama and I made together.
And the zucchini from the garden that were harvested JUST before they invaded Spain.
(With - what else? - a bottle of narcotics for reference.)
Emma has really stepped up and turned into quite the little nursey. She can now clean bathrooms, do dishes, vacuum, dust and clean up dog vomit. (Two dogs in one day. Joy.)
And Chad?
The. Man. Is. Amazing.
(Breep! Breep! Sap alert!)
I am so smart to have married this guy! I know so many other wives who would KILL to have a guy that works all day and then comes home and makes dinner, cleans the house, goes grocery shopping, carts his wife's crap from room to room without even being asked, helps her get dressed and showered and obsesses that she's comfortable/fed/loved/has easy access to chocolate. Truly. I don't know how we went an entire year without him. Dude, I LOVE YOU. Now there are those reading this blog who have actually MET Chad and observed him fart, belch and make fun of.....well, pretty much everything. You might not believe me as I gush about him. But really! I'm not lying here: my husband is more awesome than any other husband out there. We will have a contest. And Chad will dab at this tears as they place a twinkly crown on top of his military haircut and name him Mr. Awesome Husband 2011.
Ok, maybe he won't cry. But he will win.
And here are more end-of-post photos in lieu of any kind of real conclusion:
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