Grannie Clampett, that is. Oh. You don’t know who that is? Says something about my age, I guess. Oh well, never mind.
If you’ve been here for a while, you know me. You know that I live in the GWN (that would be, Great White North). You know that I’m a wine lover. You know that the epicenter of my PsA is in my feet. You know that since starting Enbrel I’m feeling better than I have in at least fifteen years. And you probably also know that PsA has gifted me with two titanium knees, and one hip. You’re also most likely aware that if my ultra-conservative rheumy had picked up the pace of my treatment, I might not have the extensive erosive damage in both my feet which makes my mobility scooter my best PsA friend (not counting all of you, of course).
Whine alert: stop reading right now, Seenie’s in a really really bad woe-is-me mood.
What you don’t know is that I’m a plain dresser. Some would politely call my boring style “classic”: black or dark navy mix-and-match separates, with a punch of colourful accessories. And shoes. Oh my, how I love shoes. For some women, it’s purses, for others, it’s jewelry. For me, it’s a pair of burgundy red shoes. Or turquoise. Or deep green. When I shop, I put my nose marks on shoe store windows. Or rather, I used to. And while I’m no Imelda (I’m too, shall we say, “thrifty”) my closet used to be stocked with a cosmopolitan selection of good-quality shoe classics in well-chosen colours. When PsA took possession of my feet, I faced the reality, and sent them all to Goodwill. I’m still not over that, but such is life. With great regret, Seenie moved into ugly comfort shoes, which, as time went on, were becoming less and less comfortable. But still I hoped that, eventually, I’d find comfortable and fun shoes that would make my feet and me happy.
It was a shock when the foot surgeon said that with my degree of PsA damage, there was nothing that he could do except recommend a good orthotist. So off I went, I had my feet casted, and last week I went to have my new orthotics fitted. I brought along the buttugly comfort shoes and my Timberland hiking boots. And that’s when I hit bottom. Right there in the podiatrist’s chair.
These orthotics are thick. Heavy. Padded. Half an inch thick in some places. Forget the ugly comfort shoes. The only footwear that she could fit them into was my hiking boots. And then the podiatrist (who is very sweet, I might add) brought out her catalogue of footwear for feet like mine. Seenie’s choice is: extra-depth boots, or extra-depth shoes. If you want a preview, google those. No, better not, it’s not a pretty sight. They all make my buttugly comfort shoes look like ballroom slippers. And that is it. Period. Full stop. I won’t even tell you the price of these footwear horrors. Let’s just say that they cost way more than my Amalfi pumps did. Except that my Amalfi pumps were beautiful.
I guess I should look on the bright side. With these in my hiking boots, I can stand and walk better than I have for quite a while. But at the moment, I have but one (1) pair of shoes. I wear them as slippers. I wear them in the kitchen. I wear them out to dinner. I look like Grannie Clampett. While you’re googling, you may as well look her up. You’ll get the idea.
I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say what my husband and what my rational mind has been saying for a long time. Comfort and being able to walk trumps all other considerations. And some people don’t even have feet. I know. Still, I am crushed and devastated. Vain and superficial as it is, that’s where I am right now.
You know how we all say that, outside of the PsA club, nobody “gets it”. Well, my husband and my podiatrist and even my own rational mind don’t get how I’m feeling now. You do, though, don’t you?