I had a longstanding follow-up appointment with my orthopedist today. I walked back and he was talking to my physical therapist (whose office is across the hall).

After I finished giving the PT a light berating for Tuesday’s fiasco, the orthopedist came in, and started investigating why my foot’s not getting better.

His conclusion: Two of the major tendons that hold my foot together (the anterior and posterior tibial tendons) are starting to fail. He thinks that I need to get surgery to prevent the tendons, anterior tendon in particular, from snapping.

And not just simple laproscpic surgery, no no. But “let’s disassemble and reassemble half your left leg” surgery that would leave me on crutches for 4-6 weeks.

Resetting at least one of the two affected tendons, lengthening the calf muscle (which he thinks is putting more strain on the tendons), and doing a couple other things that went over my head. 4-6 weeks, no weight on the foot at all.

I have a job where a substantial portion of my day is spent schlepping stuff from Point A to B, and occasionally to C. I live on the second floor of a building with no elevator. 4-6 weeks on crutches is going to be a special little corner of hell for me.

The orthopedist at least is willing to try re-targeting my physical therapy and really ramping it up for a couple weeks to see if it at least makes a difference.

He also, whether he likes it or not, will have to wait for both the show’s season to wrap filming (my boss is directing the finale, and ain’t no fucking way I’m dealing with that on crutches) and for me to get a second opinion, since I’m clearly not going through with anything this drastic without getting a second goddamn opinion.

I’ll know more in a couple weeks after doing the intensive PT and seeing how it works, but it’s not looking good. I’ve written off today to wallowing, but hopefully starting next week, the re-targeted PT will actually start paying off.

Cross your fingers for me.

So Tuesday was a miserably shittastic day for me, because my physical therapist decided one of my legs was shorter than the other.

I’d gone in for my weekly physical therapy, and while I’ve been making some progress with Mister Cranky Ankle, it’s been excruciatingly slow.

So he did some rather unscientific tests and became convinced that my good leg is about a quarter inch shorter than my bad leg, and that this was what was impeding my progress.

This despite the fact that the orthopedist had checked this when I initially had come in, and had found that my legs were the same length. Nine months ago.

Anyway, the physical therapist made some adjustments to the custom fit orthotics I had to get made after the first injury, and sent me on my way.

Problem was, the adjustments he made turned my legs against me in a rather violent fashion.

The heel lift on the good foot threw my entire right leg out of alignment, and put me in some rather excruciating knee pain for the better part of the day.

The small piece of foam he’d added to the arch of the bad foot started bruising the bottom of my foot (a problem I’d previously had in poorly fit orthotics) and that killed as well.

So after all these efforts to make me feel better, what happened? I ended up hobbling around the office and generally looking and feeling like my 89 year old grandmother.

When I got home last night, I took out all the crap he’d put in. Today, I was walking relatively normally and in substantially less pain than yesterday. Still more than I’d like, but I’ll certainly take “irritating as fuck” over “excruciating and making me consider stealing a cane from the prop department.”

I’m gonna give him a nice punch in the face (or at least the bicep) when I go in for my appointment next week.

Bone Bruise!

This is basically an intermediate scenario of the two I thought I’d be dealing with. Not as nearly as bad as pain without an obvious cause, but not as good as pain that can immediately be fixed with arthroscopic surgery.

Unfortunately, the main treatment for a bone bruise is time, and the recovery period is really nebulous: “Days to months” is the time frame I’ve seen quoted repeatedly online.

The orthopedist mentioned that if I’m still in a lot of pain in a couple of weeks, he’d consider giving me a cortisone injection. However, the bruise is close enough to a major tendon that reacts poorly to cortisone that he’d have to put me in a cast to prevent the cortisone from leaking into the vicinity of the tendon.

I don’t care how much it hurts, I am NOT going to be doing that.

Instead, I have to try and rest it as much as possible (real easy when my job involves running around like a crazy person a good deal of the time) and continue taking the handfuls of Advil I’ve been eating for the last week.

The orthopedist also sentenced me to another month in Physical Therapy in order to try and accelerate the healing process.

Oh goody, more getting up at 6am! I didn’t enjoy it nearly enough the first time.

At least I know what I’m dealing with now. I’m frustrated as hell that there’s no timeline for when this should actually start feeling better, but I’ll take knowing what the problem is as a consolation prize.

Still no MRI of DOOOOOOOM yet, apparently the delightful folks at Blue Cross thought I could do with a weekend of sitting in my apartment and watching Rear Window.

I had to take the trash out today, and when taking the trash out and getting the mail leaves you whimpering in pain, you know something’s fairly seriously wrong.

Also, I went to put on a pair of jeans I bought recently today and experienced everyone’s favorite delightfully distressing “they won’t zip!” moment.

Actually, not even just that. It was more, “They won’t zip and simply having them buttoned is crushing my kidneys!”

This despite being purchased at the same time as another pair of pants of the same style and size, which I wore Friday with absolutely no problem.

I double-checked the size on the tag sewn into the pants, and it claims they’re my size. I had a lot of Chinese food last night, but I don’t think I had that much.

Damn you Old Navy, and Damn you to Hell, Mr. Cranky Ankle!

Yes, I am still alive. Down the rabbit hole a bit, but still alive. Here’s a brief recap of a few things going on:

- Thanksgiving with mom went well, then Cleo stopped by for a few days. I need a neon “vacancy” sign.

- I joined 24 Hour Fitness. I’m trying to work out 4-5 days a week, 45 minutes a day. Doing this means getting up at 6am every. damn. day. during the week. Because of this, I’m a little tired.

- Work has been insane. This past week was less insane than the previous week, but still nice and batshit crazy.

- UCLA beating USC and thus knocking Florida into the title game has set up a battle royale over college football between two of my good friends. It is going to be hilarious.

- Did I mention that I’m a little tired?

- I got a fortune cookie with my Chinese food tonight that told me, “An admirer is concealing his affection from you.” I found this rather weird.

- This week is going to be completely nuts because Saturday is the holiday party, which I’ve spent the last couple months pulling together. And I’m singing with the band that’s playing…and I haven’t sung in front of 300 people in about 3 years.

- My head hurts. Then again, so does every muscle in my body. So I suppose that evens out.

More than likely no blogging this week again. Once I have some shred of sanity back, it will return. Until then, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to entertain yourselves.

Last night when I woke up from a nap, I noticed an irritant in my eye. I figured it was an eyelash or a speck of dust or something, so I went to the mirror to try and get it out.

After poking myself in the eye for a couple minutes, I realized that what I thought was a speck was not moving, and was actually a slight cut on my eyeball.

Luckily, working on a show about pretend doctors, we have a registered nurse and a couple actual doctors wandering around the office to ensure we have something that at least resembles accuracy.

The RN listened to me describe my symptoms and immediately diagnosed me with a small corneal abrasion, also known as…a cut on my eyeball.

The good news, she told me, is that because it’s not very severe, it should go away on its own in a couple of days if I don’t rub my eye when it itches. Which of course, I want to do all the fucking time.

Her recommended treatment was also kind of hilarious: Put on an eye patch when I got home and wear it overnight to stimulate the healing process.

She meant of gauze, but I immediately had this mental picture of running into one of the now-closing Halloween discount stores and picking myself up an eyepatch.

Although that’d be slightly less ridiculous than my current getup: Gauze held in place by a hilariously oversized ace bandage because I couldn’t get the tape to stick.

No, there will not be pictures.

Assorted news and notes:

- I came down with a real nasty sinus bug starting Wednesday. Lots of fun. And by fun, I mean massive pain.

- It takes more forms of identification to be allowed to purchase real Sudafed than it does to pay for it with a credit card. By the time I was done, I was surprised they didn’t want me to leave a DNA sample.

- Even though I was sick, I stayed late at work to watch a big stunt last night. Totally worth it.

- I am already very tired of Christmas and its related parties and gifts.

- I found a mechanic who not only doesn’t suck, but is actively good! Thanks, CarTalk.com!

- Did I mention that I feel like my sinuses are about to burst forth from my head like that scene in Alien?

If you are a rabid sports fan, you have probably already seen this site. If you are not, or even if you are, and have not seen it yet, click the link and prepare yourself for some amusement while the video loads.

Make sure you stick around after the demonstration for a most hilarious mispronunciation of the word testicles.

Courtesy Fark and Deadspin.

The following people, corporate entities, and inanimate objects are hereby on notice:

1. Time Warner Cable. Four hours of pure fiasco, and I still don’t have cable. “It needs to come in from outside” apparently didn’t convey clearly enough the need for drilling, and thus for a signed note from the building manager.

The manager, of course, was elsewhere, so the guys (who were an hour late to begin with and didn’t call to say they were running beind) left.

2. The garage door at my old building. As I was coming into the garage with my last armload of stuff, someone started to try and come in. The door got about a foot off the ground and then crashed with a very loud metallic THUNK.

I’m writing this up via the Swiss Army Phone while sitting in my car, waiting for the super to come over. The length of time it’s taken for him to come over, let alone open the gate, is making him very close to being On Notice.

3. My back and my ankle. Listen kids, you stop fighting with me and I’ll buy you some serious painkillers.

I don’t think Chaplin was happy with me leaving him alone for two days. The evidence:

1. Kitty puked in a couple of strategic places that were not immediately obvious upon my return home. That was fun when I finally found it.

2. Kitty, after curling up on my chest for a while to lull me in to a false sense of complacency, woke up and then bit my face so badly that I’m now wearing two band-aids.

To add insult to injury, he also managed to bite me right where I had hit myself in the head with a phone reciever about a day earlier (shut up, it was a lot lighter than I thought it was by looking at it).

Little bastard. Anybody know any good way to stop a cat from using his owner as a chew toy?