My Very Own Tailor's Bunionette

Tailor's Bunionette.  It sounds adorable, doesn't it?  Small, unobtrusive...Wait, scratch that.  What am I talking about?  Being obtrusive is the Tailor's Bunionette's whole game!  That's why I had surgery to remove it today.

But allow me to back up.  Before school ended back in the spring, the side of my left foot started to hurt.  I thought it was a bruise, but didn't remember receiving an injury.  When it worsened, I thought I may have somehow fractured my pinkie metatarsal bone, but still couldn't imagine how.  As anyone who has ever kicked a wall back in 1994, because her car got stuck in the snow, making her late for violin making school knows, broken toe bones have to heal on their own.  And also, you wouldn't think it would be THAT IMPOSSIBLE to sit at a bench and make violins with a broken toe, but it is.  Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

But back to 2013, I made the assumption that my pinkie metatarsal was cracked, so I waited for it to heal.  It didn't get worse; it just hurt, especially if someone kicked me in the foot, which happens with alarming frequency when you have kids orbiting you all the time.

When the little pinkie didn't improve with with time, I was concerned about it worsening while we were on our road trip.  I had some sandals Coco gave me that seemed not to bother my foot, but I left them in the hot sun one day and they shriveled up.  Apparently, Crocs don't like prolonged, direct sunlight.

It was really the side of my foot that hurt, on the joint where the pinkie meets the foot.  For how much it hurt, I didn't give it a whole lot of thought.  It was mostly subconscious that I always sought out the one pair of shoes that were the most comfortable.  I never shop for apparel, but when those sandals shrank, I went to Park City and bought two new pairs at the outlets.  It was so out of character.  I'm so oblivious, I didn't realize I was acting out of self-preservation.

In fact, it wasn't until this week that I connected the dots.  All summer long, the pinkie pain had stayed steady.  It didn't worsen during the trip, even with all the walking, thank heavens.  Only when ballet started again and I pulled on my exercise shoes several hours a week did the toe start crying for attention.  It was hurting, my poor, faithful little foot!  I analyzed my favorite Crocs and, what do you know, the sandals weren't touching the part that hurt, at all.  My ballet teaching shoes and all the others I had started slipping on were squeezing that area.

When I told Ruby I was going to the foot doctor, she glared at me.  HER foot had been hurting and I didn't even care!  The doc agreed to see Ruby at the same time, so we went together, just so I could alleviate my Calloused and Uncaring Mom guilt.  As we waited, we studied a medical poster.  I joked, "Hey look, Ruby, how would you like to have a Tailor's Bunionette?  That is so cute!  But how can you take it seriously?"  We imitated a pretend doctor:  "'Well, it looks like you have a Tailor's Bunionette.  We're going to have to do surgery."

Then Dr. Flitton came in and he said, "Well, it looks like you have a Tailor's Bunion.  We're going to have to do surgery."  At least he had the decency to call it a bunion, although I think the diminutive is rather cute.  I always thought a bunion was like a corn, but when the x-rays came back, there it was: a big bone growth protruding from the side of my metatarsal like the petal of a fleur de lys.  No wonder it hurt whenever some clumsy kid kicked me, and whenever a shoe even gently pushed on the fragile, tenacious little frond.

There was an option two, Dr. Flitton informed me:  For the rest of my life, I could take all my new shoes to Ray's Shoe Repair and have him stretch out a balloon-like area of the left pinkie toe, thereby minimizing inflammation.  Because the bunionette wasn't going anywhere, ever.

Four minutes later, I was on Dr. Flitton's surgery schedule.  Sorry, Ray.

In general, a case can be made for not going to the doctor, because we walked out of there with a steroid shot in Ruby's ankle and plan to cut open my foot, whereas before, we had been pretending our problems didn't exist with moderate to above-average success rate.

Now, though, Ruby's ankle feels much better (don't let anyone tell you a steroid shot doesn't hurt like the dickens, though!)  and I am reclining on my bed with a much happier foot, resting much easier going into winter, when a non-sandal shoe will inevitably come in contact with my foot.  Now I don't have to worry about the pain.

Sometimes, you get used to things you shouldn't get used to.  I admit to feeling a level of camaraderie, almost, with the pain in my foot.  It tried not to bother me, and I babied it.  Its presence was almost comfortingly familiar.  Yes.  I anthropomorphized my Tailor's Bunion.  It's scary!  But how often do we invite nettlesome discomforts into our lives, then slide over and politely make room for them, instead of going the more painful route and extracting them?  Something to think about when you can't reach your car keys, eh?