Philistine

The Friday evening before Christmas, Scott and I attended the Tucson Symphony Orchestra’s holiday “pops” concert. He had surprised me with the tickets, in more than one way because not only was he volunteering to attend a concert (he usually passes), it was Christmas music to boot. He is not a fan of Christmas music, and yet there we were. He’s a good man; I think I’ll keep him.

Naturally, when you’re having a series of Christmas concerts, it is the ideal time to dig up all the landscaping and roads around the venue, leaving mounds of dirt everywhere, no sidewalks, and the festive blinking lights of road barricades on the way to the single available entrance. This is particularly appreciated by those of us in casts, and given that the average age of your typical symphony-goer is baby boomer or beyond, I daresay I was not the only audience member inconvenienced. But with plucky determination and the steadying hand of my beau, we made it to the door of the venue without my doing a faceplant.

It being the symphony, all the furs were out in force, because one’s opportunities to wear furs in Tucson, a very casual and usually very warm city, are few and far between. Fur-trimmed sweaters and fur stoles and fur coats abounded and astonished. I was wearing a faux fur coat, one I bought last year and happen to love. Certain people I live with, however, do NOT love my coat, and unkindly refer to it as my “pimp coat.” It looked particularly groovy with my navy blue cast shoe, although I did my best to dress it up by wearing a red sock over the cast to match my ensemble.

The orchestra was big and beautiful, and we had great seats in the 3rd row so I could watch everyone and remember what it was like to be in the middle of an orchestra like that. I miss it sometimes, usually when I’m at the symphony, which is not often. My violin had an unfortunate disagreement with our fabled dry heat this spring, though, so it is currently in unplayable condition, languishing in its case.

It being a pops concert, and, apparently, pledge week, there were many guest visitors there to make their pitches for people to contribute to the orchestra, directly or through raffle tickets. One part of the evening was devoted to selections from the Nutcracker, complete with ballet dancers from the local troupe doing the Southwestern version they are famed for, including “The Dance of the Prickly Pear Fairy.”

Now, ballet has never really been my thing, and I’ve never sought it out, but seeing as it was being provided to me as part of the evening’s entertainment, I leaned forward in my seat, trying to get the most out of it and educate myself on this art form I didn’t know anything about.

We were about 3 pieces into the Nutcracker selections when I turned to Scott and said, “I don’t get it.” When I was a little girl, I would turn on my Classical Masterpiece LP (yes, I’m that old) on my huge secondhand cabinet record player, and flounce about my room being a ballerina, up on tip-toes, standing on one leg, spinning, with general airy movements of the arms, and if my brother made the mistake of coming in while I was doing so, he was immediately impressed into service as my dance partner, which usually involved him holding up the leg I lifted behind me. (Why he didn’t just grab it tight and give me a good shove, I don’t know. He was a better kid than I ever gave him credit for, I guess.) This is pertinent, because, other than the toe shoes and much better costumes, I wasn’t seeing anything on the stage that I hadn’t done myself back in my ballerina-wannabe years.

This disturbed me. If you’d seen me dancing as a kid, you would know why. My mom didn’t call me “Grace” for nothin’.

I like to dance individually, and I like to do group dances. It feels good to move. But I have never really seen dancing as a spectator sport, even though I do like to watch ballroom dancers do their thing. So I thought, “Surely, I must be missing something, the something that turns people into ballet fans,” so I watched more intently for it. I thought maybe if I just watched carefully, the beauty and joy of ballet would become clear to me.

No joy. I still thought it was silly. Clearly, I lack the “ballet enjoyment” gene. I could appreciate it from a technical point of view, particularly as I watched the final performer, who was obviously one of the top dancers in her company. She set about proving that joints that move only in one plane are for mere mortals; I swear she had no bones at all, she was so fluid. I almost forgot that she was wearing an over-sized dish scrubby as a skirt. But as I watched the performance, nothing was kindled in my soul but bafflement, mirth, and rude adolescent remarks that I wisely kept to myself. Not really what they were going for, I imagine.

Maybe as one whose body is, and has ever been, her enemy, I would never think of expressing my deepest feelings via interpretive dance (doing so might very well result in my ending up in traction, with full body cast), and therefore cannot understand that mode of personal expression. But I get points for trying, right?

Right?

I’m going to need a bigger Christmas stocking

In addition to the usual mixed bag of physical calamity that is my personal carcass, joining the chorus of pain recently has been a worsening problem in my left foot. I’ve been suffering with pretty nasty plantar fasciitis since this summer, and my research said that RICE and good stretching of my calves would eventually ease the pulling on the plantar fascia, so that’s what I did. However, it didn’t get better. And as time wore on, I started feeling the pain move up the back of my left heel. I did a lot of icing and stretching and avoiding of the doctor, because ever since my stroke scare a few years back, I have had very little faith that going to the doctor will actually do anything but make me a $15-25 co-pay poorer. Subsequent doctor visits since that incident have only reinforced this belief.

So there I was in my cubicle a few weeks ago, in need of a break, so I got up and stretched my calves as I’d been doing for months without incident, with a mind to taking a turn about the office building. But when I stretched the left one, something very, very bad happened. It felt like I had ripped my Achilles tendon, not entirely, but certainly like I was working on it. Imagine a rusty steak knife sawing at the back of your ankle and you’ve pretty much got what it felt like. I hobbled back to my chair and called my doc. A visit the next day resulted in me getting a referral to the orthopedist and an order for X-rays. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to see the orthopedist for 2 weeks. Suffice it to say that there was a fair amount of suffering, icing, cursing, and wincing filling my time while I waited.

Monday, finally, I went in with a foot wrapped in an Ace bandage. The orthopedist did a fairly decent exam, and only made me howl in pain the one time as he tested my assertion that flexing my foot at all resulted in the rusty-steak-knife sensation. Lo, and behold, but it STILL hurt! He suggested that at this point, my Achilles tendon probably just has micro-tears, and it needed a chance to heal. (Because when you’re constantly reinjuring it by walking, reflexively flexing it, and letting strange doctors bend your toes back, it can’t do that.) Let’s put it in a cast!

Now, I had suggested that possibility to Scott when we talked about it, and when I showed up back at work with my foot in a cast, I said, “Did I call it, or what?” Who needs medical school?

Frankly, the cast, as inconvenient and unwieldy as it is, has been a relief, both physical and mental. Physically, I cannot flex my foot in the way that makes it hurt; mentally, I feel like I might just have some hope, because I’ve been feeling pretty hopeless about the whole works lately; chronic pain is a bitch, especially when it’s getting worse. I’ll be wearing it for 4 weeks, getting it off right before I leave for camp, which is good, because my ocean-appreciating, whale-watching walk will be seriously compromised if I’m gimping around in this cast.

In the meantime, I get to learn all kinds of new things, like how to keep the shower water out of the top of the cast. I paid extra for waterproofing, but that just means the cast doesn’t get ruined if you get it wet; it doesn’t keep the water from slithering coldly across your skin and pooling at the bottom, where it takes all day to dry, and feels clammy and gross in the meantime. After trying the Hefty bag/rubber band combo (epic failure), it seems Saran Wrap at the top may be my answer. The family has been helpful. Athena keeps chewing my bare toes, which could be dangerous for her, if I reflexively move my foot and she gets clubbed like a baby seal. Rocky prefers to chew the walking shoe attachment that I wear over the cast. Monte just wants a lap, and he ignores my handicap entirely; he will not be denied. At least Scott has been wonderful about fetching things, asking me if I need anything, and not choosing the parking spot as far as possible from any possible destination, as is his wont.

Good times, good times.

Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas is my health. It’d be such a novelty. I’ve been very good this year. (Of course I have; how much trouble can a cripple get into?) In any case, a relatively pain-free 2008 would be received with much gratitude and great relief.

Please and thank you,

Kristie Cunningham, good girl since 1971