My robot feet are not doing their job of “keep things from getting worse”. They worked wonders for a while, but lately it’s been pretty damn hellish to be any part of me below the ankles. At this rate, I’m going to be in a wheelchair by the time I’m 50 – I’ll be one of those scary, droopy fat old ladies you see wheeling around in a motorized cart with a smiley face flag on the back and a carpet bag tucked between my feet (which will be spilling out of my K-Mart sneakers like so much fleshy sausage purchased from Discount Bob’s Meat Wagon Mart).
This fucking sucks. I have to literally plan my life around how much walking will be involved – tonight, for example. The wind storm has shut down much of the city, and I opted to forgo the car in favour of transit. After work I’m meeting up with Ed and Josh to explore downtown and do some Christmas shopping. I am looking forward to it (I never get to wander downtown), but at the same time I am filled with dread – my feet already hurt, just from walking around the office. I know I’m going to be limping within an hour, and tonight I won’t be able to sleep because the pain will be intense.
I hate this. I hate my feet. I hate the fact I can’t be fixed, and I hate the fact that the inevitable surgery will a) cost me $2500 per foot, and b) won’t fix things completely if at all. I am angry and sore and I feel like a fat load of crap that can’t even walk two blocks without needing to stop because the bones in my feet are on the verge of breaking back down into the primordial ooze from whence they came.
Fuck.
delicious juice dot com 
Wow, dare I say it… but, I feel your pain. Well, partly. After being injured by one of my (disabled, power-wheelchair weilding clients) this last spring, I’ve discovered – oh joy-of-joys – how very difficult it is to recover from a tendon injury. Like, to the tune of being in varying degrees of agony after perhaps 30 minutes of grocery shopping… or less. Like, our dear friend illie passed me a freaking *demerol* leftover from his surgery and it *didn’t even touch the pain*. Oh, yeah, GREAT.
While I can’t say this has been going on as long as you’ve obviously been dealing, it’s as frustrating as all hell. Dealing with WCB is akin to being beaten and treated like some criminal – all in a fun, cheery phone call.
Oh, and by the way? These orthotics they so kindly condescended to pay for after 7 or 8 months of torture (not to mention the 4 months of physio)? Not gonna fix a thing, but may make my foot-hell more tolerable. Uh, is it just me, or do I deserve a little more than this?
So, this won’t make you feel at all better, but I can see where you are coming from and I’m sad and frustrated for you, too.
It even managed to ruin my IKEA-shopping joy in a most heinous way. :( That’s pretty damn bad.