Radioactive Fallout

The doctor looked at me and said, I think you have a stress fracture in the right metatarsal. You'll need a bone scan so I can see the extent of your injury. And just like that I was fitted for a cast and drove off to Concord Imaging, my favorite imaging center. They're nice and it looks and feels like a spa when you walk in, which helps calm me down. I'm on a first name basis with Alma now, we swap stories like we're old friends as she injects me with radioactive isotope. When she maneuvers my foot under the camera I refrain from crying out in pain because I have convinced myself that I really don't have a stress fracture but am instead just reacting like a big baby because I want some extra attention. Even though it really does hurt and the doctor himself noted that the pain was severe.

Then the isotope begins to race through my blood stream down to my injured foot. It pools in the exact location that has been causing so much pain and glows an unearthly white on the screen. And I know that I'm not overreacting. The proof is on the screen and I begin to cry. Somehow seeing it in black and fluorescent white gives me the permission I need to feel the pain and my foot begins to throb. When the initial part of the scan is over I cannot walk. Instead I hobble to my chair and fight the sobs that want to take over. And then I pull it together, put on my cast and drive to work.

5 hours and 32 ounces of water later I am back at Concord chatting with Alma. She compares the new images to those from my bone scan in April that revealed a diagnosis of osteoarthritis. This time the right foot definitely shows a new injury and it glows much brighter than the silly old arthritis, highlighting the inflammation. For the next 45 minutes I try to lay perfectly still as my foot is placed in odd positions so the scan can capture all angels for the doctor to review. As I lay there I continue to berate myself for not seeking treatment sooner, for thinking that I'm still 26 instead of 5 months shy of 40, for trying to be brave or ignore the pain until walking was out of the question.

I'm grateful that despite my stupidity the radioactive fallout of this procedure was mild. Yes the pain is severe, but the prognosis is good. I will be in a cast for 4-6 weeks but there appears to be no permanent damage. I will be forced to care for my foot and not abuse it by pushing it harder than I should. That means no more running or extensive walking, but instead biking or God-forbid water aerobics. It also means old lady shoes instead of heels, once I'm out of my Frankenstein cast that is. And my Frankenstein cast is huge - because in order to fit my ginormous calves I had to get a cast made for Arnold, not Angelina. Hey it ain't pretty but at least I already have a costume for Halloween!

My "Frankenfeet" - driving shoe and walking cast.

My Inner Hippie

I found my inner hippie last night. I didn't know she was lost until my boss gave me concert tickets to Rain: The Beatles Experience. And for those of you who don't know, my boss does everything in style.

• The Majestic Theater
• Box seats
• Private lounge
• Valet parking

It started with I Wanna Hold Your Hand and ended with my favorite, Hey Jude. The other 2 hours were filled with songs like Yesterday, Come Together, Let It Be, Hello Goodbye, A Hard Day's Night, Eleanor Rigby, Girl, Across The Universe, I Am A Walrus. As much as I enjoyed the concert, can I be honest and say that I've always hated the walrus song? Last night didn't change my mind. It's still awful.

But, otherwise the night was AMAZING. I feel like I saw the REAL Beatles live in concert. It was an unbelievable show. Psychedelic lights, a multi-media presentation, musicians who almost perfectly imitated the real stars in look and sound. It made me wish I had seen the real deal. If you appreciate music at all then walk, don't run to the nearest show!

Now if I can just finagle a way to see U2 and Coldplay live in concert before I die.....


http://www.raintribute.com/

Barbie Doll Wannabes

I was in Las Vegas last week. Land of bad Elvis impersonators, an Eiffel Tower knockoff, gondolas that glide across shallow swimming pools instead of murky canals, AND an over-abundance of fake boobs. Lots and lots of silicone.

Come to think of it, aside from Sin City, I don't think I've ever seen so many fake boobs in one place. Not to mention the fake tans, fake hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails, fake noses, fake lips, fake ____________ (fill in the blank). Everyone seemed to be masquerading as someone else. It was difficult for me to discern fantasy from reality, well at least until I looked into the mirror!

Remember that Oprah episode about human Barbie Dolls? It chronicled women who had spent thousands of dollars and endured multiple surgeries to transform their faces and bodies into living, breathing Barbies. With each surgery their noses got smaller, cheekbones more defined, lips plumped, boobs enlarged and fat sucked away. Post-surgery their hair was blonder, teeth whiter, tans darker and jewelry flashier.

In the altered reality of Vegas I encountered one of those women. She almost knocked me over as I tried to exit the casino. As I stumbled I was struck by a few things, including her enormous, fake knockers. She was frighteningly skinny, no bigger than a size 0, her tanned and leathery skin stretched uncomfortably over her 5'10 frame. With her stilettos and teased, blond hair she appeared to be 6'2. Her tiny body could barely support her enormous chest and it was all she could do to stand up straight as she held on to her date for dear life. After my initial shock wore off I looked more closely. I ignored the barely there mini-skirt and the tight & tacky spandex tank top and focused on her distorted features.

Her lips were filled with too much collagen, her brow smooth and shiny from Botox. Restylane filled her cheekbones and fake, feathery eyelashes framed her wrinkle-free eyes. A tiny, upturned nose was barely noticeable above her bee-stung lips, and eyeliner was expertly painted to draw attention to her cat-like, blue eyes.

Although she held herself with an air of confidence, her eyes were empty and she seemed brittle and hollow. It was achingly obvious that she was not as young as she tried to appear. The attention she drew was mostly from people gawking in horror. No one was fooled by her vanity; clearly she had purchased Nicole's nose, Anna Nicole's breasts and Angelina's lips. And all of the money and painful surgeries had failed. She did not look like a Barbie Doll.

As I watched her walk away I thought of how often my own vanity or pride causes me to live under pretense. I don't want people to see how messy my life is, how deep the wounds, how severe the traumas, how pathetic the vanity, how painful the suffering. I would rather appear to have it all together, or to seem smarter or funnier, or even kinder and gentler. But just like the wannabe Barbie, others see through the pretense, and in the instant I choose to keep hiding I miss out on letting them know me as I am, instead of who I wish I were. Funny how that works.