Extreme Bunions

Genetics Did Not Get That Memo

I'm checking out my new swim cap.   TYR.  Silicone.  The only style I could find at REI.  I'm standing in front of the mirror, hair in a bun, stretching the blue silicone cap clumsily over my head, trying to avoid pulling fine strands from my scalp in the process....

The front of the cap is cinching too far down my forehead, pinching the slight frownline in my brow into a much more pronounced furrow with extra wrinkles.  Ew.  Ok maybe it's supposed to sit higher....

That's better!  Who knew?  One can actually achieve results similar to a browlift by simply donning a swim cap!  Do my ears go inside, or outside?  OK time to read the instructions.

"Do not leave in direct sunlight.  Avoid contact with sharp objects.  Wet hair before putting on cap."  Wait a minute.  I thought the whole point was to save myself the work of having to totally wash & dry my hair after a swim.  What now? 

My eyes revisit the mirror.  At this special time  of my mid-30's life, MOST mornings I am confronted by a reflection that I have a difficult time recognizing.  This vision in front of me though, while the royal blue swimcap casts a greenish tone to my skin and pulls my forehead more taughtly than Joan Rivers'; it's beyond comical....

I've decided to take up swimming.  Not just the occasional dip in the lake or the pool for summer fun; but rather, a genuine effort to do swimming as cardio & strenghening for my fitness and mental health.  From swimming, I bet I can even progress on to some of those goofy aerobic-fitness classes in the pool at the gym.  I am gonna buy goggles, sporty one-piece suits, the whole deal.  It seems the most logical thing to do, both pre-and-post-bunion surgery.  I am  feeling pretty strongly that I'll go for the Scarf-Akin bunionectomy, on both feet, simultaneously, as soon as possible.  Perhaps  2 or 3 weeks after surgery, I'll be allowed to swim, to keep myself fit and happy.

Why does it matter so much to me to aspire to such lofty goals of physical fitness?  I mean why's a few months' recovery from foot surgery got to be so hard?  Why not just go the easy route and sign up for NASA's bed-rest experiment, wherein participants are paid up to $17,000 to stay in bed in the Human Test Subject Facility at Johnson Space Center for 90 days (read a lot of books, perhaps write some short stories, do some meditation, get all mushy) and aid their cause of studying the effects of microgravity on the human body?  OK I ADMIT, I DID CONSIDER IT.  http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2008/05/nasa-offers-500.html

Alas, I would more than likely not pass the Airforce Medical Exam.  Aside from whether or not I could even qualify for this study, I can say with uttmost certainty that it would damn near kill me to sit still for that long!  It would be depressing, and - I'm willing to bet my right foot- also counter-productive to the healing process.

Beneath all of this reasoning (reasons disguised in terms of health and fitness and a seeming obsession with staying in shape), then there is my Real Reason for fearing foot surgery.  For mourning the end of my pre-surgery era.  For my dread of the recovery time.  The Real Reason, in my heart, at the core of my being, is that I'm a dancer.  I always have been.  Not professionally, but personally.  I began studying ballet at age 7, and then moved on to other forms of dance after age 12 when it was determined I would never be a ballerina with these feet.  Dance is a large part of my extracurricular activities. It's something I've been passionately drawn to, from a young age, and even during the long phases I've tried to give it up.  It may appear to friends and co-workers as something on par with a hobby or sport.  It may look that way on the outside.  On the inside, I can't quite part with it though, no matter how hard I've tried.

Unfortunately, Genetics Did Not Get That Memo.  So they gave me the "wrong" feet, plus a few other "wrong" things, like poorly aligned knees and short achilles.  In return, I've made the best of enjoying what I've been given, to explore dance and music as much as I possibly can.

It was with this focus in mind, and fueled by my anger and trepidation toward my impending bunion surgeries, that I decided to go to San Francisco last month (instead of my usual NYC trip) for summer dance classes & workshops.  It was a feast of dance class experiences. 

The San Francisco contemporary dance community has a LOT to offer.  The mainstays are Lines Ballet/SF Dance Center, and ODC Dance Commons.  There were Graham-influenced modern classes, there were Dunham-influenced modern classes.  There were Cuban-and-Brazilian-influenced contemporary classes.  There were Horton technique and contemporary ballet technique classes.  There was such a plethora of choices that I can not possibly explain them all here.  There was a very comfortable open attitude, and talented dancers ranging in age from teenagers to over-40's.  Paco Gomez, Katharina Worthington, Antoine Hunter, and Robert Moses were stand-out teachers of my selections for the week.  Each was incredible in his or her own way.  Each tested my limits.  I had merely 6 days; but I blissfully overloaded myself. 

On my last evening in town, I found my way into a family-owned Venezuelan restaurant in the Mission to enjoy a steak dinner after class at ODC.  After dinner - charmed, stuffed, and physically exhausted - I wandered in and out of shops on Valencia to finish gathering gifts for friends before making my way to the BART station under a quickly darkening sky.  Time to get back to my friends' home in Oakland. It had been a beautiful day.  A beautiful week.  And suddenly, I realized I had no idea exactly which train stop would get me anywhere near my friends' house (I'd been taking the transbay bus all week), and my cell was completely dead.  It was a mini-panic.  Who could I call?  How could I call?  As if an answer delivered by the Universe, in my periphery, I noticed Antoine, one of the ODC teachers from Brazilian-Modern class earlier in the week.  He was very kind.  He let me borrow his phone.  He sat with me on the train.  I told him the story of my vacation week, and of my feet.  He told me about his work, the hectic schedule and many different schools where he teaches, and shared his website.  www.antoinehunter.com

Probably 85% of our exchange, this late summer night in a BART train speeding toward Oakland, took place via pen on note paper; Because Antoine Hunter, master dancer and dedicated dance instructor, is deaf.  Now if that's not inspiring, then I don't know what the hell is.

House Rules

I hate this moment.

You've probably been there.

It's the moment you find yourself at a "please remove your shoes" household. When it's in a work-related context, this one trumps even the swimming pool or the boating-with-friends situation in terms of Bunion Shame and Embarassment.

Today my list of client visits included a no-shoes household. (The ridiculous part is that the entire place was under construction, covered in drywall dust and all kinds of other toxicity; yet somehow it was imperative for the house that all humans remove their shoes upon entry.)

The irony of my total discomfort with the no-shoes household is that I, myself, have tried to live by this policy for years in my own home. In the past 5 years or so however, I've become lenient; having developed a new sense of compassion for those who would rather keep their feet to themselves (or simply feel more comfortable in the privacy and comfort of their own footwear).

I had been forewarned by my client. I had even written myself a note, in my Outlook Calendar, it read:

"1:30 PM; Laurie's Home/Measure Windows...NO SHOES ALLOWED. BRING SOCKS."

I've grown attached to a really comfortable pair of Diesel flat sneakers with a kind of "ballet slipper" profile during this last month of summer, the kind that look best without socks. So, as things played out this morning - having forgotten to read my own personal reminder - I found myself forewarning my client outside her front door.

"Ok, well, I can take these off but just be prepared 'cause my feet are a little scary."

As I crossed the threshold, something amazing happened. My client recognized the shape of my feet. Her face gave no sign of fear or repulsion.

She, too, was barefoot. She displayed the faint but tell-tale scars of Bunion Surgery! And not just the less-invasive type of surgery my mom had; but likely a Lapidus procedure, with the top scar and everything. She has been through the 6 to 8 weeks cast on both feet, and lived to tell about it. (She can honestly say it sucked.) Suddenly, all of my stress and apprehension of this No-Shoes Household Moment did a complete 180.

We compared notes. We exchanged surgeon's names. She had hers done over 5 years ago. They look great. Her new struggle, however, is a bit of mysterious heel pain going on; plus some painful nerve damage as a result of the gastrocnemius release. (The latter is something that seems to be offered in conjunction with bunionectomy, especially by more aggressive surgeons.)

 She is a survivor. Perhaps she can be my confidant.

Living With Bunions For 25+ Years

Arch supports.  Toe spacers.  Orthodics.  SuperFeet.  Metatarsal pads.  Night Splints.  If you've experienced a bunion or two, and visited a podiatrist for conservative treatment, these are words you've become all too familiar with.  Conservative treatments and shoe modification can slow a bunion’s progress.  For many of you, there may be a variety of special shoes you’ve tried wearing, or a personalized combo of shoes + one or three of the corrective/supportive options.  Maybe you’ve done so for a year, or two, or ten.  Of course, none of this will remove or reverse the bump itself, nor permanently correct the underlying maligned bones/ligaments that started this whole problem in the first place.

 

Like everything else in life, bunions are a process, not a static state.  For me, this has been a nearly life-long process, and a time consuming way of existence with expensive orthodics and constant fiddling with shoe "gear" that I’ve come to accept without question.  Both my paternal and maternal grandmothers had this condition on both feet.  So does my aunt (my dad’s sister), as well as my mom (who is now 65 and underwent surgery for bunionectomy in her 50’s).  It seems as though my case is relatively unique among everyone I’ve spoken to, because of the early onset around age 10 or 11.  When you combine the genetic predisposition for bunions with certain environmental factors, this can happen at such an early age.  Once the process starts, it’s essentially an irreversible growth pattern put in motion.  Just as a moving river changes the landscape around it over time, dragging surrounding structures and materials into itself, carving out rocky surfaces and eroding earth, growing wider and more established; you can support it protect it or slow it down, but you don’t really “cure” a bunion.

Far from being just a mildly unattractive or uncomfortable feature; my scenario was recently referred to by my physical therapist as “an extreme biomechanical disadvantage.” It’s generated a combo of foot dysfunction, knee pain, hamstring and Achilles tightness, and other issues.  What I’ve got goin’ on here is the culmination of growing and building upon a flawed foundation for 25+ years.  Add to that the early onset; and at age 37 I'm the proud owner of a pair of feet nearly identical-looking to my grandmother’s feet the way they were when she was in her 60’s.  In my teenage years, my mom used to joke about my “bad understanding.”  At this point it is definitely no longer a joke.

I’ve had a few contrasting opinions on surgical treatment in the past few years, and am getting close to making my decision.  These professionals, who’ve probably all seen the wildest spectrum of foot deformity during their careers; even so, have a difficult time masking their true feelings during my appointment.  In polite words, the last podiatrist I visited referred to my left bunion as “Impressive.”  Really, I thought that was a nice way to put it.  A doctor friend (albeit, a cancer doctor) was more honest when shown what I got to work with; announcing “You, my dear, are screwed.”   Podiatrists and orthopedists are responsible for presenting all non-surgical treatment options alongside the surgical treatment options.  But when asked, they confess my surgery will definitely be considered medically necessary and covered by insurance, and there’s no reason for me to have to keep living with this.  The decision ultimately has to do with surgery options, down-time, and other questions that I’m still grappling with.  Meanwhile, I’d love to hear from anyone else who is facing, or has faced, similarly extreme bunions.

Children Tell The Truth, And It's Not Always Pretty

After many years of dating trials and tribulations, I've met someone.  A real live adult, with career goals & family, good taste; plus the tolerance required to handle my creative surges and unpredicability.  His six-year-old son is quite the charmer. Perhaps not the most genteel with words, but adorable nonetheless.  One evening I'd arrived all crazy-headed after a workout, just in time for dinner.  So he says to me, "you might want to brush your hair sometime today..."

Sunday we're out front throwing the ball around, and my 12-years-of-service-Honda-Civic is nearby at the foot of the driveway.  "Lynn,  your car is kind of, broken.  And it's dusty.  Kind of like maybe you need to clean it." 

OK Yes that is a valid point, as there's a 7" hole ripped in the side of the door from the time 2 years ago when I accidentally dragged the side of the car along the pointy-ended-fender of a vintage Chevy two-ton truck permanantly parked on the street in front of where I live.  Yet somehow, coming from the mouth of a young child, it is magnificently embarassing to hear this.

I am really not looking forward to the day this kid notices my freakishly deformed feet.  Sure, I'll find a way to handle it gracefully.  Just like the many other times I've had to field questions from all sorts of people.  It's just that I'd rather not have to, at all.  Up to this point, I've slid about the house inconspicuously wearing my socks on the days all three of us hang out together.  Not just for my own pride, but to protect him from this somewhat scary vision that most surely would be indelibly branded into his young mind!