Had the dressing removed today for the first time since the slice and dice procedure last week, and I was a little apprehensive getting this ready this morning when I noticed three of my toes were purple, black, and green, although nothing seemed to hurt too bad, and I had gotten by without any Vicodin for twelve hours.
The bruising was worrisome precisely because I had so little discomfort, and one of the things diabetics have to be concerned about is having their appendages rot and fall off, the way my insignificant penis did back during the Reagan years, when wishing and hoping was all the rage.
The nurse was kind in letting me snap pictures as she peeled away the dressing and cast and assured me that the bruising was nothing to worry about. She'd seen a lot worse. As long as I wasn't in any pain, she said, everything seemed to be progressing according to plan. And then she laughed: "Bhwu-wha-ha-ha."
So after fifteen minutes or so, I was looking like Frankenstein's butt buddy as the tufts of padding and strips of gauze clung to my ugly leg daring me to make a joke about missing Halloween for the last time.
Finally I got a full view of the stitches, and I began to wish I had brought some of the meds with me. This was like something a medic once told me about being able to see the hurt. The heel had been a problem for a couple of decades, but I wasn't prepared to recognize that I'd been butterflied like a pickled pig's foot.
I was also surprised at how small the cut in the calf was, considering that is where most of my discomfort is, particularly if I stretch a little too far so it feels like a bow string getting ready to snap.
The bruise on the side of the heel is quite lovely. If I end up losing the foot, I hope I can make a handbag displaying that bruise.
And with the pictures taken, the doc proceeded to reapply a new cast and tell me to stay off the foot for two more weeks. Next week, I get to take pictures as he removes the stitches. That should be fun. I'll bring plenty of pills.