the thing that made me chuckle quietly to myself as i sat in a series of dismal waiting rooms* at the local hospital/medical laboratory/the ENT doctor's office/my GP's office, was that the joke was on them: they might think i was worried about my possible cancer/tuberculosis/unspecified medical badness but what really killed, was my foot. my plantar fasciitis has now reached a level of personal dedication and devotion that i would expect from a loving family pet: it is with me always, from waking to sleeping, and even that magical time in between as i take my midnight tinkle. i hobble. i limp. i galumph. and i finally went to see my GP about it. we had a fun conversation.
moi: the foot. it hurts. i wear my orthotics. i stretch it. i massage it. i ice it. it is getting worse. help.
GP: having exhausted all other possibilities, the thing to do next is an incredibly painful injection of a steroid into the heel.
moi: ok! how many do i need?
GP: only one ... i've only ever had to do one ... ... ... of course i'm not certain if it's because one was effective or if the patients didn't want to come back for a second one ... but i think one ought to do it.
moi: i'm in!
(like i said, the foot hurts like a sonofobitch)
*to be perfectly honest and factual and truthful, it was, for the most part, the same three waiting rooms during a series of days, but whatever.