Old Lady

Right now, as I type, I am icing my foot.  I have a frozen 16 ounce Dasani water bottle on my living room floor and I'm rolling it back and forth, back and forth with my right foot.  I let the bottle linger the longest when I roll it back toward my heel which hurts like - well, sometimes there is only one word that will do - like a motherfucker.

The pain began over a month ago. I have absolutely no idea what I did to my foot or how I might have strained it. I can pinpoint no one particular moment where I felt the pain begin, I haven't changed my exercise routine, I walk the same amount I have always walked.  (A lot.)  After a few days of just ignoring the ache, thinking my feet were just sore from a particular pair of shoes or too much walking or too many days of heavy LL Bean boots thanks to the longest winter ever, I finally decided to head to Doctor Google.

I did not like what I found.

I was able to self diagnose myself pretty quickly, mostly because every single symptom aligned with the terribly named Planter Fasciitis.

Wait, what?  I thought to myself as I read website after description after website.  This cannot be right.  Isn't planter fasciitis something that happens to old people? Something your aunts and uncles sit around and commiserate together over after Thanksgiving dinner? 

All I could think of as I researched treatments for my poor aching foot was this clip from the new Noah Baumbach film:




When ignoring the pain was no longer an option, seeing as it was getting worse and not better, I finally decided to call my doctor's office.  Maybe they'd tell me I'd been completely off with my diagnosis, I thought.  Or better yet, they'd be able to prescribe one magic little pill to erase the pain completely and get my foot back to feeling like its old healthy self.

Or...
Not.

On Wednesday, with my wallet $35 lighter thanks to my co-pay, I left my doctor's office with confirmation of all that I suspected.

And no solution.

Unless I eventually get a steroid shot, the only treatments are icing, stretches, plenty of ibuprofen, good supportive shoes, and time.

I stopped at the CVS on my way home post-doctors, knowing I needed to stock up on the recommended ibuprofen.  While in the store I took a stroll down to the foot care section, filling my basket with every comfy looking insole and cushion specifically designed for planter fasciitis that I could find. I even bought a sleeping boot, designed to hold you foot at the proper angle to maintain the necessary stretch for your tendon throughout the night.  (Aside - that actually does seem to be helping.)  When I finally cashed out at the register I had racked up nearly $60 worth of foot and p.f. related purchases.

So much for those fun trips to CVS where I used to just treat myself to a new lip gloss.

After I handed over my debit card and was collecting my bags, ready to walk out the store, the clerk called out to me:  "Wait, Miss.  You forgot your new coupon that comes with your receipt."

Tired, my foot still feeling like it was on fire, silently wondering how I suddenly felt so old while I'm still so young, I turned back around and reached for the paper he was holding.

A coupon for arthritis pain medication.