OK, back at it again, albeit without the white Vans.
Daniel? No? Too played out?
Anyway, back to the Frankenfoot. After we left Dr. Honkey Clog’s office, I was very uncertain about which direction I should go in. I was resigned to the fact that I needed another procedure, as walking was becoming more and more difficult. The bone spur was digging into the bottom of my achilles, so the farthest I could go was about a mile before that shithead of a tendon would swell up like a balloon. So, naturally, I contacted Rezbollah the Medical Sales Rep™.
Who is Rezbollah the Medical Sales Rep™? I can’t tell you, but just know that he is special.
In many ways. So many ways.
Put it this way – he wears these bad boys…
…and I still trust his medical opinion and talk to him.
What’s that? Yes, correct – those are men’s dress slippers.
Hmm? Yup, correct again, they have flamingos on them. Let that marinate for a bit before moving on.
Ok. Now that you have recovered, Rezbollah the Medical Sales Rep™ pointed me in the direction of a foot and ankle specialist at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York City. Now, I know the place, and know they treat a lot of the top athletes in the world of pro sports, so I was certainly intrigued. Rezbollah tha God™ (Another one of his names. I don’t know what it’s about, ask him) let me know that there might be a considerable wait, but that he would talk with said doc and put in a good word regarding my case. Sure enough, I landed an appointment with *only a three month wait. While that sounds like a lengthy time frame, I was in no rush to be cut open again, so all was good.
On the day of my appointment with Dr. Slim Thug I…
What’s that? You don’t get the reference? Ok, well, step your rap game up as I will only explain it this one time. You see, Slim Thug is the original Boss. If you find that hard to believe, see it for yourself:
So, as I was saying, on the day of my appointment with Dr. Slim Thug, I gathered my now-enormous medical folder containing all of the pertinent information from my last two surgeries and hopped on the train to Manhattan. I didn’t really know what to expect, so I was a bit nervous. I didn’t know if he was going to tell me that everything was fixable, or that I would walk like Keyser Söze for the rest of my life.
Now, I am not making fun on Keyser, mostly because he is a bad ass and one of the best movie villains of all time. That and he’s not real. Point being, I was nervous that he was going to tell me I was out of luck and that I should be happy that I was able to walk.
So, there we were, hanging out in the waiting room, one that was decked out with massive framed NBA jerseys, with nice Sharpie notes of thanks regarding one successful procedure or another. Just then, the door opened, and boom, there in all of his shiny baldness, was Michael Bradley, starting central midfielder for the United States men’s national soccer team. Now, anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a massive football fan.
By the way, that’s what it’s called, so shut your mouth with this, “but that’s what Tom Brady plays!” nonsense. Also, you will root for The Arsenal Football Club if you have even a smidgen of taste and self-respect.
Ok, so there is Michael Bradley, who played for Roma in Italy, although I will not hold it against him, because, well, Forza Juve. I am feeling much better about myself at this point because if he trusts Dr. Slim Thug to take care of his money maker feet, then so can I. Naturally, when Michael got up after his name was called and looked over at me, I was super composed and reacted normally.
Nope, not at all, really.
This was about the extent of it…
You know, minus the Ron Weasley hair cabbage and the Hogwarts backdrop. But, you get the picture.
With my new found confidence, I cruised back to the waiting room after my name was called and took a seat and waited for the doc to come in. The room was covered with famous athlete’s photos, all with personal thank you messages to them. Famous dancers, Olympians, NBA players, etc. I allowed myself to dream a little bit, envisioning what my photo would look like. Probably something like this,
I am sure he would throw that right up on the wall.
So, after a few minutes of waiting and dreaming, Dr. Slim Thug came in with a few of his residents, and shook our hands. Right off the ba, I could tell he was the man. For one, he had a totally normal personality, which I found was rare for orthopedic surgeons (to all my ortho docs who read this, I’m sorry, but ya’ll are Type-A x 1,000,000). You know, he could carry on conversations that were not 95% about him and his past accomplishments. That, and he swore, literally one or two sentences into our first conversation. Loved it. All of it. Now this is a guy I could get down with. He quickly grabbed my post-op write up from the last procedure and skimmed through a few parts. He was muttering to himself about how long and absurd it was, which I found a) hilarious and b) to be bit of retribution. When he was done, he looked up at me and my father, looked over at his residents, and said,
“Teaching moment – this is why you don’t f**k with an athletes achilles tendon if you don’t have to.”
YES. THIS GUY. Even my father, who hates swearing, laughed and nodded. Inside, I was all like,
(for you, Toons)
Finally, a doc who gets it. It may have taken 2 surgeries and a bunch of dollars, but I had finally found my guy. If Nicholas Sparks were to ever write a book about an ankle’s search for it’s orthopedic surgeon soulmate, well, he should just holler at me.
Next time – Surgery is nice, so I’ll say it thrice.