As mentioned in an earlier post, I am waiting on a broken bone in my left foot to mend. Every night, I strap an odd device to the injured area, squirt some ultrasound jelly on a small sensor, apply it to my foot and turn on the electronic machine that apparently sends some sort of low-intensity ultrasound wave (signal? beam? photon? midi-chlorians?) that is supposed to stimulate bone growth. During the twenty-minute treatment, I feel nothing, nor do I notice much difference ever since the pain slacked off a few weeks ago. All I know is, girls’ soccer season starts March 7 and I intend to be out there on the field, in my cleats, mixing it up. If I have to put some strange, hoodoo devil contraption on my foot to accomplish this, so be it.
Seriously, though, I’ve grown quite weary of this injury, which was sustained on November 19 of last year. I’m told that this particular bone (the fifth metatarsal) doesn’t heal very fast naturally if it heals at all. While I am not a fan of surgery, at this point I would have gladly gone under the knife if it meant I could be walking normally to and from my classes, exercising without some silly modifications, and playing indoor soccer with the other “geezers” on Sunday evening.
It’s a difficult thing, waiting to heal. I suppose it teaches us patience, but I feel like just about every other experience in this life teaches us patience one way or another. I guess it comes from our desensitization for instant gratification. Patience is a virtue, sure, but perhaps the hardest one to learn.
So I’ll keep applying this strange device in the hope that, after the last programmed cycle of treatment, that little bone on the outside of my left foot will be all better – will have magically/scientifically grown and merged securely with its neighbors – and things will get back to normal. I only hope I appreciate what I’ve got when I finally get it back. After all, I think that is more important than recognizing what we had once it’s gone.