Something is afoot

If you know anything about me, you know when it comes to doctors I like to go to the top guy or gal. In fact I'm the person always being asked for recommendations by friends and family.

Note to self: write memo on finder's commission.

Anyway, I have a support system—I’d say life support system but that might give you the wrong idea—of medical professionals that are tops in their fields, and there when and if I need them.

One of them happens to be my podiatrist, Doug Richie. He's seen me through all my foot woes: plantar fasciitis, broken toes, stepping on glass, orthotics, sprained ankles, in-grown toenail, neuropathy. As far as I'm concerned, he's the top guy in podiatry.

And the fact he has a picture in his office with Jerry Seinfeld in no way influences that opinion. “What is it with the little toe? Exactly what is his job?”

Sadly for me and my tootsies, while on his website today I found out he’s retiring at the end of the year. After practicing 37 years (slacker), he’s handing (footing) the practice over to his two associates, who I’m sure are just fine or they wouldn’t be working with him.

But it won't be the same.

I have a relationship with Doug that’s developed over the years. I trust him completely. We have mutual friends, and we actually live in the same neighborhood. In fact occasionally I see him jogging down our street, and I always think the same thing: I hope he’s wearing the proper running shoes.

And speaking of running shoes, Doug holds patents—5 but who's counting—on footwear and ankle braces he's designed and invented. How many patents does your podiatrist have?

I thought so.

So Doug, thank you for everything. I always looked forward to seeing you, and I never minded footing the bill (I know, sorry). Regardless of the circumstances (although I'm not gonna lie: the cortisone shots for the plantar fasciitis weren't my favorite part), I always knew my feet were in good hands. I know you'll still be extremely active, and I wish you nothing but the best in your new season.

When you run past our house, be sure and wave.

You're soakin' in it

First things first. These are not my feet, my legs or my pink slippers. Not that I have anything against pink slippers. In fact I'm sure some pink slippers can be quite fetching, and I have no doubt were I to wear pink slippers I'd look fabulous in them.

But we're not here to talk about pink slippers. We're here to talk about my feet. Again.

In my last post, I described in more detail than anyone asked for about the minor procedure I had to remedy my ingrown toenail. In what us medical professionals like to refer to as the post-op phase, I've had to soak my recovering tootsie twice a day in luke warm water, with a half cup of epsom salts mixed in.

First, because of the water temperature, every time I fill the bin, in my head I hear James Earl Jones saying "Luke, I am your water!" Yeah, I know.

Second, I've never really known what epsom salt is. I've heard of it, I know it's something you soak in, but that's about the extent of it. Come to find out it's crystals of hydrated magnesium sulfate (pay attention class) that not only relax the feet and reduce swelling, they also draw out toxins and promote healing.

The problem is apparently epsom salt only comes in an eight-pound bag or larger. Do you have any idea what a cup a day for five days weighs? Neither do I, but it can't be much cause it doesn't make a dent in that gigantic bag.

Regardless, five days after the procedure the toe is looking swell. Not swollen, just swell. I don't know how the epsom salts do their job, I just know they are.

I know you'll be disappointed, but this is going to be the last post about my feet. Two is enough, and three would just be weird. I don't mean to be callus about it, I just want to manage your expectations.

Sorry about the callus joke. It was downright corny. Sorry again.

Foot jokes are my Achille's heel.

Ok. I'll stop now.

Nailed it

I've known for days something was afoot. I know, I'm already sorry I wrote it. But it's going to be that kind of post, so you may as well start getting used to it.

This is not an actual picture of my foot. For starters, my story is about my right foot not my left one. My legs are also considerably more muscular from the exercise they get walking from the bedroom to the refrigerator several times a night. It's all about the calves.

Anyway, I've had an ingrown toenail on the big toe of my right foot for a while now. It had gradually gotten more and more painful, finally to the point where I had to do something about it. So I went to my podiatrist, Doug Richie, who also happens to be Jerry Seinfeld's podiatrist when he's in town. Hope I don't hurt my foot again dropping a name on it.

With my vast medical background, I figured Doug would trim the nail properly, the pain would be gone and that would be that. Were it only that easy.

He said apparently what happened is the shape of my toenail has changed, something fairly common as "one gets older", a phrase I can never really hear enough. He then informed me the best way to stop it from reoccurring was to do a minor surgical procedure called a wedge resection.

This little piggy screamed ouch.

Basically, it consists of numbing the toe, then trimming the wedges on both sides of the toenail so they don't grow into the toe. Ever again. Part of the procedure involves putting acid—not the fun kind—on the roots where the trimmed nails were to make sure those suckers are gone for good.

When it's over, he wraps the toe up and it looks like the toe in the picture. Actually, by the time I got home, the bandage looked a little more, shall we say, colorful. Which is why I'm sparing you a picture of my actual foot.

So if you need me over the next few days, I'll be sitting here soaking in epsom salts while I finish bingeing Hannibal.

By the way, I don't know if you noticed, but I got through this without any "arch" enemy or "He's a heel" jokes.

And we had a ball anyway.

Glass slipper

While it's not a picture of my foot, it may as well be. Here's what happened.

About nine days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night with a craving for cold, clear, healthy water from the dispenser in our refrigerator. I'm absolutely sure it had nothing to do with the leftover cheesecake that was also in there. No one's under oath here. Anyway, somewhere on the well worn path between the bedroom and kitchen, I stepped on a small piece of glass. Funny how that'll wake you right up.

I reached down, pulled it out of my foot, threw it away and continued on to the cheesecake. Excuse me, water.

Fast forward to last night. I came home from having lunch with my great friend Carrie (Petros in Manhattan Beach - chicken souvlaki is the hot tip), got out of the car, set my foot down and could barely walk. I managed to make it into the house, fell into one of our living room chairs (the one without the dog on it), and stayed there most of the night.

Since the glass stepping happened a week and half ago, and I'd been fine since, I didn't give it a second thought. Instead, I figured it was the new orthotics I'd gotten about five days ago and was still getting used to.

Whatever it was, it hurt like hell. And the bad news is that I was supposed to leave with young Mr. Spielberg for Comic Con this morning.

However, it was not the pain-free foot morning I'd hoped for. I was going to tough it out and just go - always a good idea with four days of walking and standing in lines ahead - but the wife put her foot down (SWIDT?), insisting I call my podiatrist and get it seen.

So my son drove down to Comic Con with his friend Austin at 7 this morning, and I saw my doctor at 10.

My foot was clearly swollen, with a redness emanating out in a circle from one spot on my foot. He pressed the center of the spot, and I believe there may still be a hole in his ceiling where I went through.

So he decided to scrape my foot, which is exactly what it sounds like.

Scraping skin off the bottom of my foot, he wasn't having any luck finding anything. Then, he stopped for a moment and said, "Ah, there it is - don't move." I didn't move, and he got a tweezer-looking thing and pulled out a small chunk of the glass I'd stepped on nine days ago.

I couldn't believe it. He said if I'd come down here to the Con with it, I probably would've wound up in the ER with a fever and nasty infection. Instead, he got it out, gave me an antibiotic to take if it didn't feel better by the end of today (which it does) and suggested I soak it in hot water with epsom salt (just finished my second soaking).

Fortunately tonight was Preview Night at Comic Con, so I didn't miss much except walking the exhibition hall, which I couldn't have done anyway.

My son and his friend scored tickets to the world premiere of Star Trek: Beyond, so that's where they are tonight. My excellent friend Dale is here, so he met me at the Fox Sports Grill in the hotel and we had dinner (it didn't involve walking, just an elevator ride).

With my foot feeling considerably better, the Con will start for real for me tomorrow.

I still don't know what broke in our house or where that piece of glass came from.

But I think the lesson is don't have cheesecake leftovers, and I won't have to walk to the kitchen.