Hey, Foot Doc, YOU'RE FIRED!

Good day to all!

Before I begin my rant on the state of the American Health Care System as it pertains to my foot, can we acknowledge how hard it was for me to find a meme with the words "You're Fired" that did NOT involve the current president?

Thank you.

Now then, on to my rant.

So last week I went to my podiatrist for a check up. After almost six weeks of Franken Boot and treatment by PPTB, it was time to check in with the doctor.  No fake names here, because I feel the public must be warned against bad medicine.

My history (this time around) with Dr. Tracy Coulter is as follows:

First appointment:  Sent to X-ray immediately without more than a couple questions as to what kind of pain I was feeling.  ("The arch of my foot hurts.")

After a glance at the X-ray, she actually looked at my foot, touched it, had me stand on it, and then said she knew exactly what it was, that it was a tendon, not a bone.

Could have done that in six minutes, (which, by the way, is the exact amount of time she's spent with me at each of my appointments), without the cost of the X-rays.

Told me to wear a boot, didn't bother to tell me to get a lift for the other foot, had to find that out on my own AFTER my hips started hurting.

Sent me to PT, which was fine. I felt things were starting to get better. Went in to have her look at it.

She showed up 24 minutes late for the appointment.  It was supposed to be a ten minute appointment at 2:30.  Her check in desk assured me she was not running behind.  She showed up 24 minutes late, without apology or explanation.  

She then asked if I'd gone to PT. I said yes. She spent two minutes (I timed her) looking at the computer records and then admitting that I had, indeed, gone.  Basically treated me like a liar.

In the remaining four minutes of her precious time, she poked my ankle, asked if it hurt. Of course it did, she JABBED MY ANKLE.  

She told me to schedule an MRI.  She spent more time putting on gloves on both hands than she spent actually examining my foot.

So on Tuesday of this week I went and got an MRI.  

On Wednesday, her nurse called with the results.  The MRI showed a slight tear, which we were expecting.  Then she read me Dr. Coulter's Notes.  Here they are:

Because she did not improve with walking boot and PT, she could try a brace, but still continue with PT.
Otherwise she has to consider surgery to address.

Very definitive results and thoughts indeed.  Glad I'm paying her for this. Here's the thing:  How do we know the tear isn't improving?

Baby boot: 

They billed my insurance $99 for this thing which is basically an elastic sock with no toes. I have several pairs of those I got online for about $10.  I also have about six miles of ACE bandages in my medicine closet. If those worked, I wouldn't have needed a podiatrist in the first place.

The nurse who called me told me I should come up to the Sussex office to pick up the "brace" (25 minute drive as opposed to the closer office which is ten minutes) and get there before 2:30 because Dr. Coulter was gone for the week and she, the nurse was leaving at 2:30.  ( I work until 2)

So I raced up to Sussex yesterday to get this brace that was going to help since I hadn't shown improvement.  Still, how would she know if what she saw was an improvement??  She took X-rays first, then sent me to PT, then did an MRI...that's...what's the word...BACKWARDS?  I mean, the minute she decided it was not a bone, shouldn't she have schedule an MRI to get a baseline measure of the injury and then decide if I was improving or not?

Especially since her grand total time of actually looking at my foot is 12 minutes over two appointments.

So now I'm in what I call the "Baby Boot." But ponder this:  I asked the nurse if I was supposed to where BB INSTEAD OF Franken Boot or in addition to.  Her answer?

"Whatever you think works best.  I don't know how much pain you're in."

Isn't that sort of the problem? Not just with this doctor and her staff, but with the whole system?  Run tons of expensive tests, don't listen to or trust the patient, and never, ever, find out how much pain they're in.  Take time to put on gloves but don't take time to fully examine the foot once the gloves are on.

And hey, if you're not sure...dump the patient off to surgery rather than spend time explaining anything.

I don't have a medical degree.  I have a BS in Elementary Education, which means I can teach first graders how to spell their names and do basic addition.  But I didn't need a medical degree to diagnose my progress yesterday. Instead, I did the one foot test. And I stood on one foot without crushing pain.

Then I walked down a flight of stairs, in the normal manner, not sideways like I've been doing for the last six months.  And my foot didn't scream in pain.

So...I'm guessing that I have, indeed, improved. Which I could have told her, had she asked me that question last week instead of jamming her finger into my ankle and asking if that hurt.

So, since Dr. Coulter is out of town, and her nurse has left my medical choices up to me, here's my plan:

1) Fire Dr. Coulter.

2) Go to a couple more Pt sessions with PPTB because...well...he's pretty. Also, because he's the one professional in this scenario who has actually been helpful and I trust his opinion.

3) Continue wearing Franken Boot outside the house with Baby Boot underneath because that seems to feel good and wear Baby Boot and a normal shoe in the house for the same reason.

4) Live my life as a normal human.

I used to think the American Health Care system was good, solid, and that it was the insurance companies who were the problem, and that the doctors and nurses were doing their level best to operate within a system that tied their hands and limited their time.  But I'm starting to think maybe there are doctors out there who simply don't give a crap and are more interested in ordering tests than actually talking to their patients. This is a new feeling for me.  I don't like it.

I am, however, laughing about it. I do enjoy a good, soul cleansing rant.  

In my defense...it was probably involuntary.

Hello all!

So as I continue my treatment of my faulty foot tendon, I've learned to overcome a few things that used to make me feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.

1)  I let my aging mother do more standing and moving around our Farmer's Market Booth on Saturdays because I've found if I over do it, I'm in pain for the rest of the day.

2) I simply do not navigate stairs if I can avoid them. Which means letting Hubby do the laundry.  Which generally makes me feel helpless and useless, but I'm sort of over it.

3) Again with the stairs: the other night, at a work function dinner, rather than skipping out because I knew we'd be seated upstairs and I can't deal with stairs at the moment, I called ahead, found out there was an elevator that went to the second floor from the parking garage, and didn't even make a comment about how a fluffy girl has to use the elevator.

But...the weirdest thing I think I've done and not blushed over is this:  I kicked my Physical Therapy Boy, and I don't even care.

Now I like to picture the kick something like this: 

But it was nothing like that.

No, here's what happened:  PPTB was starting to hook me up to the dry needling machine.  This would be the third treatment and so far, nothing terribly painful had happened, so I was flat on my back, on his moderately uncomfortable table with a really thin pillow under my head, and we were chatting about this and that. Movies, I think. I don't know. 

The first needle was no problem. But that second one...

The lower half of my leg and my entire foot felt like it was on fire. Not the "oh my foot is warm..." no, it was more like, "I AM ON FIRE RIGHT NOW!"

I started yelling, "ow, ow, ow" and that's when it happened.  I closed my eyes, because of the pain, and my leg, independent of my brain, kicked upward.

I gotta be honest.  I have no idea really WHERE my foot landed.  Gut...arm...chest...something a little more...um...lower. I have no idea. My eyes were closed plus I was lying on my back and for those of you who do not understand the anatomy of a fluffy girl, once she is flat on her back the only thing she can see is the ceiling or her gut.

I opened my eyes and PPTG helped me sit up.  I still had one needle sticking out of my leg, but he hadn't hooked me up to the electric box yet. Which made this weird to me.

"I must have hit a nerve," says PPTB.

"You must have hit all of them!"  I say in a loud voice. I don't care that we're in a tiny room.  I don't care that I just kicked him and he looks as pained as I do.  

I do, however, care very much that I can't straighten out my left leg.

That's when I start yelling "CHARLEY HORSE! CHARLEY HORSE!" 

He looks at my leg and we pinpoint the area of the most pain.  He rubs it a little and it seems to be better, so we decide to keep trying the dry needling.  

"I may have a trust issue for a little bit," says I.

Oh?

I can't even lie back down. The Charley horse in my calf is too much and my foot still burns. So he pulls out the one remaining needle and I sit up again.

That's when I remember I kicked him. I ask if he's okay. He says yes.  But, poor young one, I think he's more than a little worried about any damage we might just have done to each other.

"I think we're done for today," I inform him.

"You might be right," he responds weakly.

I'm supposed to go see him tomorrow. Now, one tiny evil part of me wants to cancel just to make him a little nervous.

Open Mouth, Insert Franken Boot.

Happy Thursday everyone.

So this will be a quick little blog today because, well, even I can't expand what happened to make it more funny. It is, what it is.

Yesterday, I had a surprise session of physical therapy with PPTB.  I say "Surprise" because I was on the cancellation list and they called me at 6:54 AM and told me to come in.  I was too shocked by a pre-7 AM phone call to say no.  However, I was already dressed.  (This is important to remember as this blog goes on.)

I got to the hospital, checked in, (no fire alarm this time, but there was a guy who was really, really interested in flirting very awkwardly with the sixty year old receptionist), and got into the room with PPTB.

All is normal, right?

Sure.

He explained that we'd be doing the dry needling again.  I laid on the table, and waited for the almost non-existent pain of the needle sticks.  Except, I felt each and every needle stick this time, almost like PPTB was trying to hurt me on purpose.

"You were so much better at this last time," I quipped. He laughed.  It was a nice laugh, I think, not an evil one. Clearly, he didn't know what was coming.  But then, neither did I.

He poked me again and this time I felt a real electric shock, like I was already hooked up to the "juice box."  (His name for it.)

"So is this more painful because I have metal in my pants today?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was already dressed when they called me, and it's such a hassle to change with Franken Boot that I didn't get into sweat pants this time.  Is that why I'm feeling all this electricity more?"

"What metal do you have in your pants?" he asks.  

"Like the zipper and some grommets," I answer.  

Then I get snarky.  "Actually, I have metal stays up and down each pant leg. "

"Ha, ha," he laughs.

"Sure there's metal in my pants.  What do you have in your pants?"

And that's when PPTB completely lost it and I wanted to pretend the electric current (which hadn't started yet) would knock me out.  (For the record, he didn't answer that.)

Yep...open mouth...insert Franken Boot.

And while you're cleaning up the coffee you just spewed through your nose laughing at this, I'll leave you with this picture of Franken Boot, my shoe selection for my right foot today, and Franken Boot's new eyes.