Before jetting off to sun myself on a Caribbean cruise last week, my podiatrist had me get myself an MRI.
I did it on Thursday, and begged the technician to have the doctor give my doctor a “wet read,” which is a rough draft of the results, so I’d know what I was dealing with while I was away.
Needless to say, my luck is crap. So the MRI clinic’s doctor was unable to get in touch with my doctor before I left on Sunday. So I went about my merry way, tossing my small stiff-soled boot into my suitcase in case my doctor was able somehow reach me in the middle of the ocean and tell me to hop back in the boot.
I never even unpacked it.
When my doctor finally did get ahold of me, it was yesterday afternoon.
Let me first explain the circumstances under which I received his call. It was a day after my cruise ship had been delayed nearly 12 hours when the Port of Galveston closed due to fog. I missed my flight Sunday night, and was unable to standby on other flights because of all the Easter travelers and two cruise ships’ worth of other stranded passengers. After reserving a flight and having it sold out from under me (ugh!) I was finally able to book one that was scheduled to have me back in Chicago by bedtime Monday.
You can imagine my mood…
I got the call just as I was about to head into the security line in one of the Houston airports. It turns out that I had a second stress fracture near my big toe — not a new fracture, an additional fracture that didn’t show up on X-Rays — and bursitis under my third toe.
So I’m back in the walking cast. I am frustrated, angry, sad, depressed and trying really, really hard not to let this latest injury set me back any further. I’ve given up hope that I’ll be able to run the Race to Wrigley 5K or the Soldier Field 10-miler.
Thinking back, I almost laugh thinking about how I thought the MRI was just a formality, that my foot was just sore because I was imagining something. Dummy.
We’ll find out what the prognosis is when I see the podiatrist tomorrow.