Jams

When I got into the elevator after class tonight, there was a packet of grape jam on the floor. Before the door had closed, I had the desire to stomp on the jam. I resisted; it was a childish thought, but I was actually glad to have a childish thought. My mind has been preoccupied with old-lady concerns. Before tonight I wouldn't have been on the elevator, but last Thursday I broke my toe. (I don't remember mentioning that before, but maybe I did.) It's the same stupid toe -- the right pinky, or as the podiatrist calls it, "the fifth toe", which I think makes it sound like some weird alien appendage -- that I've broken or dislocated too many times to count. So I'm not taking the stairs these days.

I have jammed that toe so many times that I've worn away bone, tissue and ligament. I saw the foot surgeon today and he wants me to have surgery to replace the tissue and ligament. He's also going to remove the bone spur on my right heel. I feel like I have a huge rock in my shoe -- even when I'm not wearing shoes -- and it's only getting worse. At first I said no. I'll have to be off my feet for at least two weeks. I can't do that! I just got back into teaching. But I don't think adjuncts teach summer classes at my college, so I can do it then. Our -- my and the doctor's -- compromise was that I could wait until May when my classes end if I do physical therapy in the meantime. I guess that's fair.