Hello everybody, it's Rob again. I'm back this time for a horrifying story that I like to call, "The Tale of Foot". I'm fairly confident that this story will have everything: Suspense, mystery, romance, horror, and just a little bit of drama. I can't promise that this story is for all audiences, so I suggest that you send the kids away for a bit. Maybe send them to a friends house, so you can put on a Manilow record, light some candles, and just relax while you read this. At least, that is what I do when I read a story about the troubles that someone has had with a limb.
To really tell this story, we have to go back quite some time. Back to a time in 1978, and 1979 when a young man was developing in utero. As all of this future person's limbs, and cells, and all that good stuff was developing, something happened along the way, some wires got crossed, and this young person developed a problem in his feet. The problem wasn't a huge one in the grand scheme of things. Something very simple: As this fetus grew into adulthood he would not walk like a normal person. This fetus person would always walk by lifting off with the ball of his feet, instead of the right way. Now, at this point in the story, I'd like to just tell you all that this person was, and presumably still is, me. I tell you this only so that I don't have to keep saying things like, "this person".
So anyway, simple enough, I walk weird. I always have. I never even knew I was doing it wrong. And most people didn't really notice either, unless I pointed it out. And then, I guess it looks pretty obvious. Still, I have never noticed anything wrong with the way that I walk, because I have walked the way that I walk since the day that I started walking the way that I walk. I know that doesn't sound right, but you're going to have to trust my judgement on the way that was worded. Mostly because I just like the way I worded it. I find it really quite delightful.
Much of my life I have been made fun of for something or other. I'm not going to go into all of those, because quite frankly it's depressing. One thing I was never made of about was the way that I walk. So how could I, or my parents have ever known? Still, several years ago, I was told by my podiatrist that this could have been corrected when I was much younger. I guess I'll jot that down for my next reincarnation... if you believe in that sort of thing. Me? I'm on the fence. I mean, it certainly seems plausible, does it not?
I walked weird, no big deal. It didn't make my life any different for a very long time. I just lived the way anyone with two working legs would live. No big deal. And then came the diabetes. Now, when I said that I was made fun of for a lot of things, the biggest of them was my weight. I've always been big. I have no one to blame for that, except myself. As a result of too much food, too much candy, and too little "doing much anything physical", I developed type two diabetes. Or as I like to call it, the "it's my own damn fault" diabetes. I know, there are more factors than just a love for ice cream at play here, but overall... this was, and always will be my own fault.
What happened next will shock you!
Sorry about that last part, we had to pay some bills. You know how it is: A failing economy, expensive plastic surgery bills, and a love for the finer things in life, like ramen noodles, and grape Kool-Aid. There may be one further ad later in the story, so stay tuned for that! We now return you to the story, already in progress.
Bam.
And that's my story. I hope that you all enjoyed it, and will tune in next time when I... wait... what's that? You missed most of this for a silly click bait ad? Why would you click on that? That was just silly. Do you think that if I re-told the rest of the story, you could pay attention this time? I mean seriously, you all really need to grow up just a little bit. Ready? Okay. Let's try this again.
I spent the next twelve years or so ignoring the diabetes. Well, mostly. Many things happened in my life during that time. I had three kids, watched them grow, and turn into the people that they are now. I joined a band, and helped create five albums worth of material. I had my own online radio show. You know, the usual stuff. Many times I tried to lose weight. I'd walk a bit more, and I would eat a bit better, but nothing ever really stuck. And at the tail end of that twelve years, there was a tiny piece of skin coming off of a callus on my right foot.
It's funny, I remember the night fairly clearly. I was sitting on the couch watching TV (what my ex would call "spending time together"), when I saw this little piece of skin. It wasn't a big deal. Just looked like it was just dead skin, and needed removed, so I tore it off. It bled a little bit. Really, that was it, just a little bit. I really didn't think much of it. But slowly over the next couple of weeks, I noticed that the tiny bit of wound that was left by the absence of that piece of skin was not healing. Instead, it was actually getting worse. Much worse.
Whenever I would walk, I could hear this sort of puff of air sound. I really don't know how else to describe it. It was weird, and to be honest, I didn't even consider that it was being made by a hole in my foot that was getting deeper, thanks to the roaring infection that I was also trying my hardest to ignore. But as the weeks kept passing, it was getting harder to ignore that wound. The color was getting very alarming. Like, and I don't know if you know this, but if a foot is supposed to be white, you probably don't want it turning black. It was leaking blood, and other such gross substance. And the smell? Oh, it was awful. Like the smell of a mouse slowly rotting inside your living room wall, at the height of summer. It was pretty bad. And yet, I still ignored it. I don't know if I was in denial, or scared, or just embarrassed. Whatever the reason, it went from nothing, to bad, and then to worse. All of this in the space of... I want to say a month, month and a half. It got to the point where I had to just admit defeat, and have it checked out.
I call this next part: Panic And Despair.
I made an appointment at the clinic, I don't remember what day it was, but the events will stick out in my memory forever. I exchanged pleasantries with my doctor, then she asked me to remove my socks and shoes (or should it be "shoes, and socks"? It's kind of hard to take off your socks while you're still wearing... oh, never-mind). When she got a look at my foot, the look on her face told me everything that I needed to know: it was bad. I remember her taking a long q-tip type stick, and putting it in the hole, and this thing went much deeper than should be good. It's funny, she must have been saying something, but I think my mind had a bit of a shut down for a while there.
I was sent for an MRI just a few days later. The hope was that there was no infection in the bone. Those are scary words for a diabetic. Those are limb losing words. So, as I lay there in the MRI, instructed not to move at all, a million thoughts were running through my mind. And none of them were overly positive, I don't mind telling you all. Outwardly I always try to remain positive. Inside, I was a jumble of worry and panic. That 45 minutes or so inside that MRI machine just sort of crawled by. It was awful. Afterwards I was told to go home, and someone would call me with the results.
I was playing "World of Warcraft" on Monday morning (the MRI was on Friday), when I got the scariest call of my life. It looked as if there was an infection in the bone of my right foot. Panic set in pretty quick, as the tears started coming. My doctor wanted me to go to "Infectious Diseases" in Omaha, right away. So, an appointment was set up for 3:00 that day. I called my wife (soon to be ex!), who was at work. She sounded more annoyed than anything, to me, when I told her. But, she left work and went with me. In hindsight, I wish I had just gone alone. I'd always felt alone when she was there, so why bother? But... oh well.
The infectious diseases place was over in Omaha, and it was another scary thing for me. Here I was in this tiny waiting room, waiting to hear about the fate of my right leg. Would I keep it? Would I lose it? The wife tried to be supportive, I guess, but it just felt kind of forced to me. I felt completely alone. I know, a pattern in my life. After a few minutes, I went in, and they took a look. After examining it, they didn't see that I would lose the foot, necessarily, but there was talk about removing some of the infected bone, but they wanted another opinion. So I was sent to a local podiatrist.
An appointment with a podiatrist was immediately set up... the first of many. The day I met my podiatrist was another event that sort of sticks out in my mind. Mostly because when he started cleaning this thing, and cutting the bad tissue, he was trying not to puke. That's right, my foot smelled so bad with the rotting infection, that the podiatrist, a man who had been doing this kind of thing for years, almost puked at the smell. It was that bad! He cleaned it up, and said some very relieving words: "There's no reason to think that I would need surgery of any type." But, we would need to be careful with it, be seen every work, and keep it clean, and bandaged.
For the next thirteen months, my life became about that foot. But it also became something else. It became about an entire lifestyle change. I stopped eating carbs. I had cut my diet down to less than ten grams of carbs per day. My diabetes was quickly under control. And though the walking was a bit minimal at that point, because of the foot, I was walking. I was exercising a lot more, and the weight started to come off. For the first time in my life, I was finally losing weight. It felt great. I was dropping it at a rate of about ten pounds every two weeks, give or take. It was hard work, but so worth it.
Over the years since then, I've had more problems with the right foot, but nothing too big, until last week. One that started out as a blister got worse last week. It's nowhere near as bad as that first one, and at this point the infection that I had developed is gone. And though my podiatrist isn't worried about this at all, it will take some time to fully heal. So, at a time when I already have a million worries, I guess I needed just one more worry. It's not that I'm worried about losing my leg, because I know what to do to keep that from happening, it's just that I have to worry about the cleaning, and the dressing, and I have to worry about worrying the ones that I really care about. I think that may be the worst part. Because no matter how calm I feel about it, there is someone in my life who hasn't ever had to deal with this, and she seems worried. So to her, I just want to say that it will be okay. I've danced this dance before, I just need to do so lightly, at least with my right foot.
So, anyway... If you read all of that, thanks for taking a look at my long, and winding tale. I guess I do seem to ramble a lot. But, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
To diabetics: If you see something different about your foot, even just a discoloration, have that checked out right away. I know it can be scary, and embarrassing, and even now, as I write this I'm tearing up a little bit, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Losing a limb is no laughing matter, and it happens all of the time. So for the rest of my life, any time I even sense something different about one of my feet, I will have it checked immediately.
For some reason, many years ago when I found out, I did not take this diabetes thing very seriously. I took on a sort of "wish it away" attitude. I didn't change my diet, I didn't change my exercise habits. I didn't change anything. And it's that that helped to make my feet worse. My podiatrist insists that it would have likely happened anyway, even if I hadn't ignored it, but ignoring it did not help. Wishing it away did not help. The only thing that helped was taking better care of myself. I could sit here and wish I had, but that's never going to get me anywhere. This is my fault, and now I must live with it.
Okay, I'm done talking now. I've rambled on long enough. Sorry to take so much of your time. Maybe next time I'll talk about something a little less depressing. Until then...
To really tell this story, we have to go back quite some time. Back to a time in 1978, and 1979 when a young man was developing in utero. As all of this future person's limbs, and cells, and all that good stuff was developing, something happened along the way, some wires got crossed, and this young person developed a problem in his feet. The problem wasn't a huge one in the grand scheme of things. Something very simple: As this fetus grew into adulthood he would not walk like a normal person. This fetus person would always walk by lifting off with the ball of his feet, instead of the right way. Now, at this point in the story, I'd like to just tell you all that this person was, and presumably still is, me. I tell you this only so that I don't have to keep saying things like, "this person".
So anyway, simple enough, I walk weird. I always have. I never even knew I was doing it wrong. And most people didn't really notice either, unless I pointed it out. And then, I guess it looks pretty obvious. Still, I have never noticed anything wrong with the way that I walk, because I have walked the way that I walk since the day that I started walking the way that I walk. I know that doesn't sound right, but you're going to have to trust my judgement on the way that was worded. Mostly because I just like the way I worded it. I find it really quite delightful.
Much of my life I have been made fun of for something or other. I'm not going to go into all of those, because quite frankly it's depressing. One thing I was never made of about was the way that I walk. So how could I, or my parents have ever known? Still, several years ago, I was told by my podiatrist that this could have been corrected when I was much younger. I guess I'll jot that down for my next reincarnation... if you believe in that sort of thing. Me? I'm on the fence. I mean, it certainly seems plausible, does it not?
I walked weird, no big deal. It didn't make my life any different for a very long time. I just lived the way anyone with two working legs would live. No big deal. And then came the diabetes. Now, when I said that I was made fun of for a lot of things, the biggest of them was my weight. I've always been big. I have no one to blame for that, except myself. As a result of too much food, too much candy, and too little "doing much anything physical", I developed type two diabetes. Or as I like to call it, the "it's my own damn fault" diabetes. I know, there are more factors than just a love for ice cream at play here, but overall... this was, and always will be my own fault.
What happened next will shock you!
Sorry about that last part, we had to pay some bills. You know how it is: A failing economy, expensive plastic surgery bills, and a love for the finer things in life, like ramen noodles, and grape Kool-Aid. There may be one further ad later in the story, so stay tuned for that! We now return you to the story, already in progress.
Bam.
And that's my story. I hope that you all enjoyed it, and will tune in next time when I... wait... what's that? You missed most of this for a silly click bait ad? Why would you click on that? That was just silly. Do you think that if I re-told the rest of the story, you could pay attention this time? I mean seriously, you all really need to grow up just a little bit. Ready? Okay. Let's try this again.
I spent the next twelve years or so ignoring the diabetes. Well, mostly. Many things happened in my life during that time. I had three kids, watched them grow, and turn into the people that they are now. I joined a band, and helped create five albums worth of material. I had my own online radio show. You know, the usual stuff. Many times I tried to lose weight. I'd walk a bit more, and I would eat a bit better, but nothing ever really stuck. And at the tail end of that twelve years, there was a tiny piece of skin coming off of a callus on my right foot.
It's funny, I remember the night fairly clearly. I was sitting on the couch watching TV (what my ex would call "spending time together"), when I saw this little piece of skin. It wasn't a big deal. Just looked like it was just dead skin, and needed removed, so I tore it off. It bled a little bit. Really, that was it, just a little bit. I really didn't think much of it. But slowly over the next couple of weeks, I noticed that the tiny bit of wound that was left by the absence of that piece of skin was not healing. Instead, it was actually getting worse. Much worse.
Whenever I would walk, I could hear this sort of puff of air sound. I really don't know how else to describe it. It was weird, and to be honest, I didn't even consider that it was being made by a hole in my foot that was getting deeper, thanks to the roaring infection that I was also trying my hardest to ignore. But as the weeks kept passing, it was getting harder to ignore that wound. The color was getting very alarming. Like, and I don't know if you know this, but if a foot is supposed to be white, you probably don't want it turning black. It was leaking blood, and other such gross substance. And the smell? Oh, it was awful. Like the smell of a mouse slowly rotting inside your living room wall, at the height of summer. It was pretty bad. And yet, I still ignored it. I don't know if I was in denial, or scared, or just embarrassed. Whatever the reason, it went from nothing, to bad, and then to worse. All of this in the space of... I want to say a month, month and a half. It got to the point where I had to just admit defeat, and have it checked out.
I call this next part: Panic And Despair.
I made an appointment at the clinic, I don't remember what day it was, but the events will stick out in my memory forever. I exchanged pleasantries with my doctor, then she asked me to remove my socks and shoes (or should it be "shoes, and socks"? It's kind of hard to take off your socks while you're still wearing... oh, never-mind). When she got a look at my foot, the look on her face told me everything that I needed to know: it was bad. I remember her taking a long q-tip type stick, and putting it in the hole, and this thing went much deeper than should be good. It's funny, she must have been saying something, but I think my mind had a bit of a shut down for a while there.
I was sent for an MRI just a few days later. The hope was that there was no infection in the bone. Those are scary words for a diabetic. Those are limb losing words. So, as I lay there in the MRI, instructed not to move at all, a million thoughts were running through my mind. And none of them were overly positive, I don't mind telling you all. Outwardly I always try to remain positive. Inside, I was a jumble of worry and panic. That 45 minutes or so inside that MRI machine just sort of crawled by. It was awful. Afterwards I was told to go home, and someone would call me with the results.
I was playing "World of Warcraft" on Monday morning (the MRI was on Friday), when I got the scariest call of my life. It looked as if there was an infection in the bone of my right foot. Panic set in pretty quick, as the tears started coming. My doctor wanted me to go to "Infectious Diseases" in Omaha, right away. So, an appointment was set up for 3:00 that day. I called my wife (soon to be ex!), who was at work. She sounded more annoyed than anything, to me, when I told her. But, she left work and went with me. In hindsight, I wish I had just gone alone. I'd always felt alone when she was there, so why bother? But... oh well.
The infectious diseases place was over in Omaha, and it was another scary thing for me. Here I was in this tiny waiting room, waiting to hear about the fate of my right leg. Would I keep it? Would I lose it? The wife tried to be supportive, I guess, but it just felt kind of forced to me. I felt completely alone. I know, a pattern in my life. After a few minutes, I went in, and they took a look. After examining it, they didn't see that I would lose the foot, necessarily, but there was talk about removing some of the infected bone, but they wanted another opinion. So I was sent to a local podiatrist.
An appointment with a podiatrist was immediately set up... the first of many. The day I met my podiatrist was another event that sort of sticks out in my mind. Mostly because when he started cleaning this thing, and cutting the bad tissue, he was trying not to puke. That's right, my foot smelled so bad with the rotting infection, that the podiatrist, a man who had been doing this kind of thing for years, almost puked at the smell. It was that bad! He cleaned it up, and said some very relieving words: "There's no reason to think that I would need surgery of any type." But, we would need to be careful with it, be seen every work, and keep it clean, and bandaged.
For the next thirteen months, my life became about that foot. But it also became something else. It became about an entire lifestyle change. I stopped eating carbs. I had cut my diet down to less than ten grams of carbs per day. My diabetes was quickly under control. And though the walking was a bit minimal at that point, because of the foot, I was walking. I was exercising a lot more, and the weight started to come off. For the first time in my life, I was finally losing weight. It felt great. I was dropping it at a rate of about ten pounds every two weeks, give or take. It was hard work, but so worth it.
Over the years since then, I've had more problems with the right foot, but nothing too big, until last week. One that started out as a blister got worse last week. It's nowhere near as bad as that first one, and at this point the infection that I had developed is gone. And though my podiatrist isn't worried about this at all, it will take some time to fully heal. So, at a time when I already have a million worries, I guess I needed just one more worry. It's not that I'm worried about losing my leg, because I know what to do to keep that from happening, it's just that I have to worry about the cleaning, and the dressing, and I have to worry about worrying the ones that I really care about. I think that may be the worst part. Because no matter how calm I feel about it, there is someone in my life who hasn't ever had to deal with this, and she seems worried. So to her, I just want to say that it will be okay. I've danced this dance before, I just need to do so lightly, at least with my right foot.
So, anyway... If you read all of that, thanks for taking a look at my long, and winding tale. I guess I do seem to ramble a lot. But, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
To diabetics: If you see something different about your foot, even just a discoloration, have that checked out right away. I know it can be scary, and embarrassing, and even now, as I write this I'm tearing up a little bit, but it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative. Losing a limb is no laughing matter, and it happens all of the time. So for the rest of my life, any time I even sense something different about one of my feet, I will have it checked immediately.
For some reason, many years ago when I found out, I did not take this diabetes thing very seriously. I took on a sort of "wish it away" attitude. I didn't change my diet, I didn't change my exercise habits. I didn't change anything. And it's that that helped to make my feet worse. My podiatrist insists that it would have likely happened anyway, even if I hadn't ignored it, but ignoring it did not help. Wishing it away did not help. The only thing that helped was taking better care of myself. I could sit here and wish I had, but that's never going to get me anywhere. This is my fault, and now I must live with it.
Okay, I'm done talking now. I've rambled on long enough. Sorry to take so much of your time. Maybe next time I'll talk about something a little less depressing. Until then...
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