Operation Epic Fury

 As soon as I get home from my appointment, I notice that the bottom of my cast is soft and starting to crack and unravel. I don’t worry too much about it until a few days later, when it starts to pour, and continues to do so with no end in sight. I start wrapping my foot in a plastic bag, which looks ridiculous but helps me feel a little more secure. I don’t think getting a little water inside will do any damage at this point, but I’m reluctant to take any chances this close to the finish line. 

As the week progresses, I start to feel buffeted by waves of anxiety, not just about my foot but about this astoundingly stupid war that our astoundingly stupid president has plunged us into.  I try not to get sucked into the vortex of apparently inexhaustible atrocity, but I find myself doomscrolling like everyone else as I try to understand the madness, even though I know that by doing so I become infected by it. Outrage is a potent drug.

In the meantime, we all just continue bumbling along, staring at our phones, working at our jobs, and doing all the dumb everyday things we do to survive, which in my case means leaving work early on Tuesday to hop on the light rail and cross the river to pick up my new diabetic shoes.

The shoe place is in a less-than-scenic area of town, and the closer we get, the more the train fills up with people who are all in decidedly worse shape than I am, even taking into account my cast and scooter and cement block of crippling ennui.

Evergreen Prosthetics and Orthotics is only a block away from the 102nd Avenue light rail stop. On the way I pass the world’s least inviting retirement home, a marijuana shop, a mini-mart, and an abandoned taqueria. Evergreen is the only open business in what was once a medical complex.  People with shopping carts and sleeping bags huddle beneath the overhangs of the empty offices. The parking lot is so cracked I can barely roll across it. It all feels decidedly post-apocalyptic. 

Things aren’t much less grim inside. The tiny waiting room is drab with nothing on the walls but a photograph of Portland’s ubiquitous White Stag sign and a TV showing a plume of smoke rising from a school in Tehran that the US is vehemently denying having bombed. I go up to the window behind which slump two vaguely pyramid-shaped women who seem to be melting into their chairs. Before I even say anything, one of them asks, “Are you Seann?” and immediately informs me that I haven’t met my copay, so my bill will be $280. I take out my debit card but she tells me to pay after my appointment, and hands me a clipboard with a formidable number of questions to fill out. “We just need to update your records,” she says. It’s a good thing I got here early. 

I’ve barely finished updating my records when the man who fitted me for my shoes calls me into one of the back rooms. He looks exactly like a shoe salesman. 

“You’re wearing a cast,” he says. 

“Yeah I obviously can’t wear the shoes yet, but the doctor told me to come pick them up and they’ll have me put them on in the office,” I say. 

“Um, okay,” he says. “I mean, I guess that’ll work.” He doesn’t sound at all sure of this. He leaves and comes back with a large green shoebox. “You can try the right one on, at least,” he says. 

“I may as well,” I say. He opens the lid to reveal the most hideous shoes I’ve ever paid $280 for. I have no one to blame but myself; I picked them out from the catalog he brought when he did the fitting.

I put on the right shoe while he leaves to get a tote for the box. I tell him not to bother but he says, “It’s a really nice tote!” so I relent. The front of the shoe has odd zigzag laces that don’t actually do anything; the shoe is held fast by a Velcro strap. It looks a little like a geriatric bondage device. I hobble around the room. It feels like I might step out of it and that it may also be much too tight. 

When he returns I ask him, “So do these, uh, work pretty well for people?”

“They’re good shoes,” he says. “Real good shoes. Customers have been very satisfied with them.”

“Okay,” I say.

“You know, you’ve got a really good attitude about all this,” he says. 

“Really?” I ask. “Because I’m pretty miserable most of the time.”

“I know that what you’re going through with your is frustrating, I mean, I see it all the time. In fact it’s pretty much all I see. But you’re handling it all really well.”

 He puts the shoebox in the tote and I hang it on my handlebars and roll back out to the counter, where the other melting woman runs my card. In the office behind her is a stack of large boxes marked CHIPOTLE. 

While I’m waiting for the Widder to pick me up, I stare at the TV, where a pundit is explaining to a robotic newscaster why it’s actually a good thing that the price of gas is going up, and why this war –sorry, short-term excursion- is an essential step on the road toward making America great again. It’s funny how crooked that road is turning out to be, and there are an awful lot of potholes. I look down at my shoe. Just like this country, it’s weird, ugly, and expensive, but none of that will matter if it actually allows me to walk. 

*

“Is it still raining out there?” Bridget asks when she opens the door. 

“Cats and dogs,” I say. “And possibly a guinea pig or two. Hey, are you ready to celebrate tonight? After all, it’s..." I count on my fingers, "St. Patrick’s Day Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve!” 

“I’m sick of this rain,” she grumbles. 

“Well at least one of you is ready for the holiday,” I say to Jenny, who is wearing shamrock green scrubs.

“It’s been a weird day,” she says. “And the cats kept me up half the night with their fighting.” 

"It's been a weird week," I say. "Between the rain and this Iran shit, everybody's exhausted. I know I am."

"God it's all so evil," says Jenny. 

Bridget saws off my cast, going over the thick cast along my ankles over and over. When she finally manages to crack it open she shows me that the entire sole is starting to peel off. But there’s no water inside.

She tears off the batting and peels off the bandage and both her and Jenny look horrified and say, “Ohhh.” I can see that there is a spot of drainage on the bandage. I feel my blood pressure leap.

“Oh no. What’s wrong? Is it bad?”

“It looks great,” says Bridget. 

“It’s all closed up,” says Jenny. 

“Then why do you have those looks on your faces? And what's that spot of drainage?” 

“Oh that’s nothing,” says Bridget. “I’m going to get the doctor so she can see.”

"So it didn't open up?"

"Nope," says Jenny. "It's been healed up two weeks in a row now."

“I want to see!” squeals Karen. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen her; she says she was away. 

The doctor comes in, touches my foot, and makes a chef’s kiss gesture. “Outstanding,” she says. I want to ask about the drainage stain but decide not to worry about it. Well, try not to.

She and Jenny leave and Bridget prepares the undercast. She keeps asking me questions about how high up to pull the sock and how much padding to put on top. 

“Did Hawaii just wipe your memory completely?” I ask playfully. 

“I think so. Though it feels like it was a year ago.”

Doctor Thompson comes in and sits on the stool. “Now this is my last one so I expect it to be the best damn cast you’ve ever done,” I say. “No pressure. But I can't accept anything less than magnificence.”

"I always strive for magnificence," she says. "Though I rarely achieve it."

For the last time she uses up the first roll of Fiberglas then looks up at Bridget, who is just standing there. 

“What? Oh. Right,” Bridget finally says, then unwraps another roll and drops it into the water, which for the last time is the perfect temperature. The doctor finishes and once again looks up at Bridget, who once again is just standing there staring off into space. 

“Sorry,” she says, and unwraps another roll. “How long will you be gone again?”

“Two weeks,” says the doctor. 

“So I won’t see you next week,” I say. 

“You won’t.”

“ You finally going on vacation?” I ask. 

There's a pause. “No,” she says. 

She applies the third roll but the Fiberglas keeps bunching up and she stretches it tight to smooth it out. “We’ve known each other for a while, I guess I can tell you that I’m having surgery.” I wait for her to elaborate but she doesn’t. 

“I hope it goes well,” I say. 

“If it doesn’t I’m hosed,” she says. She holds out her hand. “Board.”

Bridget passes her the plastic board and she places my sole flat against to make sure it’s at a ninety-degree angle to my leg. Then she asks for another roll. 

“Another roll?” asks Bridget. 

“You know I always like to do four rolls,” the doctor says. She wraps it and rubs it and rubs it some more and then for the last time it’s finished. 

“That’s it,” she says. “This is the one, I can tell. It’s going to work this time. You’re all done.”

“I hope so,” I say. “No offense but this is getting old.”

“Did you get fitted for shoes?”

“Yes, I picked them up. Should I bring them next week?”

“Yes, bring them. And remember, if you start to see even the slightest bit of redness, take them off immediately and call to have them adjusted.”

She gets up off the stool and pushes the curtain open. 

“Good luck with your surgery,” I say. 

“Thank you,” she says, and disappears. 

“So after next week, am I really done?” I ask Vicki, who is standing there while Bridget gets my scooter. “Or do I have a follow up appointment?”

“They’ll decide after they see you next week,” says Vicki. 

“But Dr. Thompson won’t be here.”

“Oh that’s right. No, you’ll be seeing Lena.” 

“The nurse practitioner?” I ask, trying not to sound too crestfallen. 

“From St. Vincent, yes.”

I wish Bridget a happy Saint Patrick’s Day and everyone yells goodbye for what feels like the last time, though of course it’s not. As I wait for the elevator, I start to feel peculiar. I feel a lightness in my chest that I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s like the first breath of fresh air you take after lying in bed with the blanket pulled over your head all day. This is my last cast. This time next week, I’ll be free, though who knows for how long. The ulcer will probably open back up immediately, like it always does. Or maybe there will be a new ulcer in some new spot. Or maybe some fresh new medical horror will rear its head and…

No, I can’t let myself think this way. This time I’ll be more cautious. This time I’ll be more patient. This time I’ll take things more slowly. It’s been a long, difficult journey, but after all the mistakes and poor choices, after all the bad timing and hard luck, at long last, things are finally going to start going my way. 

I am going to be healed. And so will this country. Someday. 

In the meantime, it’s still raining like hell, and I have four minutes until the bus comes. Propelling myself uphill, skirting sticks and cracks and countless other obstacles, I make it with a minute to spare.