This is a slightly different kind of post. No recreating. No traveling far and wide. No adventures. This one is about staying put. Very, very put.
The culprit: bunion surgery.
Apparently bunions run in my family, information I somehow only learned in my 50s, which feels like a real failure of the family briefing process. My dad casually mentioned he had them. Then came the plot twist: my Aunty Christine had them too and had already gone under the knife. Once that came out, there was really no backing out. If Aunty Christine can do it, so can I.
So yes, serious galavanting was temporarily canceled in favor of long-term gain. Or at least that is what I told myself as I scheduled surgery on foot number one, the left.
Outpatient surgery, thankfully. Even more thankfully, they knock you out. I woke up groggy but optimistic, armed with painkillers and kind of looking forward to doing nothingness for a change. The first few days were, umm… let’s call them, character building. Agonizing, actually. The initial pain meds were clearly the introductory set, which raises a very valid question about why you would not just start with the good ones. The ones that actually work. It’s not like I was planning to get addicted – I couldn’t wait to get off them so I could get back to enjoying a nice glass of wine or a refreshing G&T. Priorities!
Once the meds were upgraded, things slowly improved. Each day hurt a little less. Healing quietly got on with its job. After a couple of days, I could put weight on my foot, although only in the boot. Calling it a boot feels generous. A hard plastic shell monstrosity, with a rigid sole and Velcro straps that sound like I’m suiting up for battle. Functional, absolutely. Graceful, nope.
With movement off the table, I leaned hard into television. And not good television. I watched an impressive amount of reality TV, in particular the rather addictive Traitors (not the US version though, even I have standards). I watched documentaries. I watched things even I will not admit to watching. The kind of TV that Darren says ‘rots your brain’. He could be right.
The single best thing I watched was not new at all. It was our One Second Everyday compilation, a stitched-together highlight reel of our galavanting years from COVID days through to our most recent Colorado trip last summer. Tiny moments, big smiles, lots of ”cheers”. It reminded me exactly what I needed to get better for.
Recovery, it turns out, is not just about what you cannot do. It is also about what quietly shows up to carry you through. Enter Darren: full-time caregiver, short-order cook, and Chief Morale Officer. I was waited on hand and foot, ironically while mine was out of commission. He treated recovery like a test kitchen, and while not every experiment was a winner, one standout emerged: firecracker salad. Crunchy, spicy, fresh, addictive. A new favorite born straight out of downtime.
A week in, I was back to “working”, albeit from a horizontal position. I lay reclined, with my leg comically elevated like a miltary goose step caught in time, balancing my laptop whilst hoping gravity would not end my career mid-email.
Then came a major milestone: at three weeks, I got back on my e-bike, boot and all. Possibly against doctor’s orders. Was it smart? Debatable. Was it necessary? Completely. Movement, fresh air, momentum, it did wonders for my mental health. Those booted bike rides became a lifeline and continued for weeks, from local paseos to beach bike paths.
After 7 weeks, transition weekend arrived. The boot was officially downgraded to part-time, and we celebrated by bringing the BaseCamp out of semi-retirement. Our beachfront site at Rincon hit the spot, with white noise from the waves, salty sea air, and sunsets to rival Colorado’s. We lived it up slowly, soaking in both the view and the progress.
Because that is the point of all this. It’s why getting back out there, full time and with two working feet, matters so much. The adventures are not done. They are simply on a medically mandated intermission.
So now, thirteen weeks post-surgery, I can walk almost normally. And stiff though it is, I can wiggle my left big toe. I am still healing. I am planning. And my slender, straight, perfect left foot is side-eyeing its somewhat nobblier counterpart on the right. “Your turn. Good luck!”
And just like that, the countdown to full-speed galavanting has officially begun.
(Foot pics to follow. If you’re at all queasy or funny about feet, I suggest you stop scrolling NOW!!!)
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