"And Now Time Is My Time Time Is My Own...

And I Feel So Alive Yet Feel So Alone" ~ Spoon, Anything You Want.


The jury is out: I will be able to run again. Not now. Not tomorrow, but in the near future.

There's also a diagnosis: synovitis (in my case, it’s in the ankle) that is due to over-pronation and causes misalignment of the joint. So basically, I'm rolling my ankle with each step. I may also have a carpal tunnel-type injury to the nerves around the ankle that causes the little toes on my feet to feel drunken and uncontrollable.

The over-pronation is nothing new. I knew I walked funny as a kid because my shoes wore down funny. Now that I own more than one pair of shoes (read: flipflops), I don't notice the wear on them anymore but the problem is apparently still there.

When I tell my mom what's going on, she automatically goes on the defensive. "Well, your grandma used to get on you all the time about that but you were fine." And even better, "We didn't have the money to be going to the doctor all the time." Um. Yeah, because now I have all sorts of expendable income, right?

I can count on one hand how many times I remember seeing a doctor from school age to 18 years. For most of that time, we didn't even have a general practitioner. You see, my dad is very much against a lot of medicine. He doesn't believe in migraines or treatment from them. He still suffers while I am blissfully enjoying life, happy to have a wonderful little pill to sweep them away in an hour's time. My entire childhood was punctuated with migraine after headache, often times spanning for weeks at a time.

"Take some Assburn," Dad would order. Assburn was my dad's terrible pronunciation of what most people refer to as Asprin. Because to dad, Asprin was a cure all. Tylenol, Advil, Motrin, Sudafed? "They will kill ya!"

We weren't Scientologists, hell, we weren't even church-goers. I have no idea why my dad's anti-medicine mentality is so deep-rooted.

When I was 14, I contracted Mononucleosis and was nearly hospitalized because my parents let it go 2-3 weeks before taking me in to a local clinic. The doctor there was so convinced that it was an upper respiratory infection that he gave me "a shot of penicillin in my leg." "A shot" turned out to be two, and my leg turned out to be each butt cheek. Mortified and unable to sit up, I brooded like only a young teen can do.

Not 12 hours later I start breaking out in huge, blotchy, itchy welts. It turns out that if one has Mono, you aren't supposed to get penicillin. As I sat in the tub every hour and peeled pink flakes of Caladryl off myself for two days, I really had had it.

To this day, my siblings and I refer to Asprin as "Assburn." Maybe it's no surprise that all of us are much more proactive in our seeking of medical attention. I'm all for improving the quality of life, even if it means having to take a pill every morning. I've been taking allergy medications my entire life, what's adding a migraine fix here and there? For those that suffer from chemical imbalances or temporary mental health issues, I'm all for the ability to seek help if that is what they need.

So, back to mom, she's getting all defensive back on me and I'm trying to curb her guilt, cradling it as if I were a receiver (Limus Sweed, if you will) with a freshly-caught pigskin. I wince. "Mom? I'm not blaming anyone, I'm just trying to fix me. Please can we focus on the now?" I pull my new orthotics out of my tote and look around for my running shoes, which will henceforth be on my feet until further notice.

"Yes, sweetie. How was work?"

"Great but busy. It's that time of year for things to pick up," I answer as I slide the shoe on one foot and the other and tug at the laces. The grey suede is considerably worn and fuzzy and causes me to smirk seeing it paired up with my sleek black, bootcut work pants. I mourn the temporary loss of my flipflops.
"Good. You sound tired."

Tired didn't even begin to cover it. But I wasn't about to supply all of that backstory to her [or you all, for that matter!] "Mom, please don't tell Dad about all of this foot mess; I'm pretty sure he won't agree and I'd rather be able to talk to him myself and defend my position."

"Yes, dear." Though, I know that he'll hear about it. If there's one thing my parents do, it's share everything. I wonder if I'll ever meet someone that I'll be able to feel that way about. Maybe. It's possible, but I've not felt that sort of trust in a long while.

The cycle of contented singledom to irrational loneliness continues via my foot; A constant reminder that I am a very human, female, and more sensitive than I'll ever let on to anyone.

Maybe “Assburn” works on broken hearts.