Footloose and bunion free
03/05/2009

Two weeks ago I had a bilateral bunionectomy—surgical correction of a progressive foot deformity on both feet.  My podiatrist recommended this surgery a year ago, but I had trouble scheduling it.  I was waiting for a six-week window when I wouldn’t need to drive, or perhaps even walk.

Call me quick, but in a flash of insight I realized such a six-week window was never going to materialize.  So I somewhat arbitrarily picked a date and gave my clients, family, and friends the news. 

Immediately, I heard more than I cared to about the agony I was in for.  Even the woman who scheduled my surgery said in alarm, “You’re getting them both done at once?  Did they tell you that you won’t be able to walk for six weeks?” 

“They told me I would walk like a duck for six weeks,” I clarified.

“And you believed them?”

Somewhat dismayed, I sought out a neighbor who had reportedly survived the procedure—one foot at a time—several months ago.  Her husband had the first opportunity to assuage my fears, and he cried, “Don’t do it!  It’ll be hell!  Tell your husband it’ll be hell, too.  He’ll practically have to carry you to the bathroom!  How’s he supposed to work?  I have a brother-in-law who’s an orthopedic surgeon and he won’t even perform bunionectomies on family members.  He says, ‘Live with it!’”

A few days later his lovely wife got back to me and said, somewhat more calmly, that she wouldn’t want to tell anyone not to have surgery their doctor had recommended (not being licensed to practice medicine, and all), but cautioned that she was still on Percocet 10 weeks after the fact.  And that she had gained 10 pounds through inactivity.  And that it hurt like a sonofabitch.

I began to think maybe I didn’t really need the surgery…at least not yet.  I mean, my bunions weren’t really that bad.  They hurt, and they kept me from going barefoot much because I needed more arch support, and I was losing some flexibility in my big toe, which was noticeable in positions like downward-facing dog.  But I could live without doing downward-facing dog, couldn’t I?

On the other hand, I’d wanted to get the surgery done soon because bunions are a progressive condition.  They get worse over time.  Having them off sooner meant a less extensive, hopefully less painful, procedure.  I didn’t want to wait ‘til my feet looked like my mother’s, which, placed side-by-side, form the capital letter “Y.” 

Still, my mother claims the bunions don’t hurt her.  She says it’s only her shoes that hurt. 

Denial runs deep in my family.

According to Louise Hay, best-selling author of You Can Heal Your Life, the metaphysical cause (the underlying thought pattern) of bunions, or of any foot problem, is fear of the future.  Literally, fear to step forward in life. 

I think there’s a lot of truth to this. 

As a result, I’ve had several silent conversations with my feet, acknowledging the painful efforts they’ve made to warn me that I’m not following my path, that I’m headed in the wrong direction, I’m not fulfilling what I came here to do.  I know they’ve had to resort to pain only because I haven’t listened to gentler communications.  I’ve promised them I will do better in the future.  I will learn from their sacrifice; I will honor their pain.

So would bunion surgery be like killing the messenger?

The day before my surgery, I lit some sage and sat down with my feet and silently thanked them for all they’ve done for me.  As if they were six-year-olds, I assured them that I would be with them throughout the surgery; that they didn’t have to be afraid; that we would get through this together.  I didn't mention that not all of us would make the return trip home.  I promised to remember the lessons my bunions had brought me, and I gratefully released them now that I didn’t need them anymore. 

The next morning, Micheal drove me to the outpatient surgical center where I exchanged my street clothes for a fetching smock.  As I was wheeled into surgery, I asked my podiatrist to “acknowledge” my bunions as he rid me of them.  He smirked, looked away, but said he would.  I don’t think he even charged me extra.  I was put to sleep, and two seconds later, awakened.  In the interim, my doctor shaved 55 years’ worth of excess calcium deposits off of each foot at the base of my big toes, drilled a hole in each metatarsal and inserted a screw that will hereafter keep my big toes and feet in alignment.  He sent me and my bandaged feet home with a prescription for Percocet and instructions to stay in bed or on the couch through the weekend, and to report to the podiatrist’s office for a post-op visit five days later.

And how has my recovery been?

A frickin’ miracle. 

I do admit that Saturday, the first day after the surgery, was bad.  The Percocets wore off after an hour, and I lay there counting the hours until I could take my next dose…and, OK, I cheated.  If I made it to two-and-a-half hours, I had two more Percocets.

But that was just one day.  From Sunday onward, I was giddily better every day.  By Monday, I was taking Percocet only twice daily.  A week later, I was down to ibuprofen. 

Eight days post-op I was able to stand at the kitchen sink and wash my hair (can’t get my bandages wet), pain-free.  No one ever had to carry me to the bathroom.  Although I’m not allowed to drive because of the post-op booties, I believe I could walk around the block right now.  Which blows my mind when I consider that less than two weeks ago screws were inserted into my feet.

When the physician’s assistant took the bandages off at my first post-op visit, she said, “Oh, you’re going to have pretty feet for summer!”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, but what are we going to do about the rest of my body?”

She patted my leg and said, “This is just the podiatry department, honey.”