The sun was warm on my knobby knees. I clutched the ledge that jutted out from the brick wall as I gingerly baby-stepped toward Daddy's 1985 Lincoln. Again, I looked down and examined my feet. They looked fine, nice even, in my new saddle shoes, but they were throbbing in pain. Right across the middle of my foot, where the black stripe separated white from white, the arches of my pitifully flat feet were wincing with each step. I checked again: my favorite red plaid twirly skirt, white socks folded crisply to show their dainty lace trim, and the smooth, pristine enemy: those shoes.--a very rough first draft excerpt of a story--true story--i am writing.
I was three the first time I padded barefoot across Dr. Bowie's cold tile floor. "Stand normally. Okay, now stand on the outside edges of your feet. Walk on the edges of your feet toward me. Good. Now go back to the door. No, still on the outsides of your feet...." Yes, my feet were flat. Excruciatingly flat. My podiatrist told my mother to enroll me in ballet, which has been about the best thing that ever came from having flat feet. Mostly, it's been foot impressions, orthopedic insoles for my shoes (the cause of the horrible pain in my saddle shoes that day), intermittent pain and swelling in my joints, lots of ankle sprains, and promises of reconstructive surgeries in my 40s, 50s, and onward.
My freshman year in college, I was experiencing a lot of pressure and swelling in my right ankle. The school nurse told me I had the flattest feet she'd ever seen (not the first or last time I've heard that one). She sent me to an orthopedic surgeon, who again gave me insoles and then told me to lose weight. No, seriously. If I didn't lose the weight, it would accelerate the degeneration of my ankle. Even then, I knew he was right. I was fat. I'm still fat. Although there is still weight to lose before my joints are a little happier, I've lost so much and have found so much joy in exercising, especially dancing.
To add insult to injury, or more precisely, to add injury to injury, a little over a year ago I decided I needed to be a derby girl. Roller derby is one of my most favorite things. So last fall, I grabbed a pair of skates and headed to the roller rink to practice. And then I fell. Twice. On my right knee. Twice. On that particular rainy October night, when I had the second fall in two weeks and could barely move, Abby tried to convince me to go to the emergency room. Instead, I went home, because I insist on being a hoss. After a week or so, I could walk normally again. The bruising disappeared within a few weeks. Ever since, it has been sensitive to the touch and swells/bruises easily (like when I insist on doing Zumba dance even though I know it is a bad idea). So, finally, I went to the orthopedist yesterday. I damaged my meniscus. Beginning tomorrow, I have 4-6 weeks of physical therapy. At my follow-up visit in August, we will check my progress. If it has not improved significantly, I will have an MRI to determine the extent of the damage. My gut tells me it's going to require surgery--I cannot imagine some exercises will now fix all the damage inflicted in the past nine months. The knee and ankle are both sore and swollen just from the poking and prodding at my exam yesterday.
Here's my thing, though: I fully realize that I have aged my joints significantly each day I've been overweight. For five years, step after painstaking step, I have brought myself back to the world of my peers, where things like hiking and dancing are possible and even enjoyable. Yesterday I explained to my orthopod, "I do not care how many surgeries, braces, contraptions, or physical therapy it takes, as long as I can be an active 26-year-old. If I can dance, I will be happy." I am not ready to be relegated to swimming and floor exercises. Even if I have to wear saddle shoes with orthopedic insoles, if it means I can do the things I love, bring on the pain!
Here's to being young and young-at-heart.
Love!!
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