Too-too-tootsie

I know you can barely sleep at night not knowing the outcome of my visit to the podiatrist, so here you go!  

But, before we begin, I want to share some BIG news: I am getting OB Ultra Tampons from a friend in Chicago!  This Book-de-la-Face friend found five or six boxes of these puppies at a local store and she purchased them for me.  If she were smart, she'd sell them on eBay and screw me. But, she--a childhood friend whom I hadn't seen since high school/ran into at our 30th class reunion last summer--saw the tampons, bought the entire lot and then sent me a message.  She said she had been on a quest to find me some of o.b.s in the purple box.  Who says social networking is a waste of time?


Also: Gaga in three days.  People, get ready.  Don't be a drag.  Just be a queen!

Back to the podiatrist story: Armed with photos of my bruised, swollen fifth metatarsal (who the hell takes pictures of their feet?) and a set of clean, well-lotioned feet, I headed to my appointment.


I must say, going to a specialist in a fancy building with fancy equipment with an actual appointment is much more fun than going to a walk in clinic during a blizzard.  Once in the building, mouth agape, I was greeted by what I would consider a refreshingly gay-friendly receptionist.  When I answered her questions and gave my emergency contact information, she asked, "Would that be your partner?" Are you kidding me? I've never been asked that by any medical professional before.  And, so nonchalant.  Made me all tingly.

I was beginning to think I might actually like bringing my ugly feet here.

From there, it only got better. Uber-polite medical staff, decked out in fabulous wardrobes; expensive, newer-than-not walk-up x-ray machine; clean, brightly light exam rooms.  (You would think that last one would be a given, but it's not.)  Computers with big-ass monitors.  Did I mention they were digital x-rays? You would think that would be a given in today's age, too--but, not so much.  It was delicious!

The nurse comes in and starts asking questions--but, only after introducing herself and addressing me with all sorts of niceties.  How inviting and welcoming!  I was beginning not to care at all about my foot.  I took off my shoe and sock as directed and then handed her the photos.  Oh my, those photos were a BIG hit!  I tried to explain why the hell I had photos of my foot, but she assured me it was wonderful. We had a pretty good laugh about them.  She was quite puzzled how I could end up looking like "this" without an injury or bite, but she didn't mutter anything remotely condescending about hurting myself while going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and not remembering it.

Next, the doctor enters.  She is pleasant and appropriately chatty, decked out in her white lab coat and stylish earrings.  She exclaims her delight for my photos. No stupid questions--just delightful questioning and answering about my foot.

I am beginning to like my feet more and more. She pokes and prods my foot, smooshing the pad on my foot by the pinky toe.  "Yes, that feels like a bursa.  You might have a burst bursa."  Okay, I get that.

Her line of questioning took a turn away from bursa to gout.....

But, isn't gout for old, drunk men?  What 48 year old healthy female vegetarian who doesn't drink gets gout? I listen closely.  Gout?


Dr. Tootsie: "Have you ever been diagnosed with gout?"'

Me: (surprised look on face) "No!"
Dr. Tootsie: "Developed suddenly and was throbbing?"

Me: "Yes!" I am intrigued.
Dr. Tootsie: "Was it hot to the touch?  Did it hurt enough that even the bed sheet was painful?"

Me: "Come to think of it, I was hanging my foot out from the bedsheets."

Dr. Tootsie: "Are you on the Atkins or other high protein diet?"

Me: (Laughs) "No,  I'm a vegetarian!"
Dr. Tootsie:  "Have you been dehydrated?"
Me: (contemplative) "Hmmmm. That'd be more likely than a high protein diet."

Dr. Tootsie gave me a rudimentary-but-not-even-close-to-condescending education on gout.  "When you think of gout, you probably think of some drunk old man."
Me: "You know, the one person I know who had gout WAS literally a drunk old man!"

So, the official result was a diagnosis of bursitis with a rule-out of gout.  If I ever have the same symptom, I am immediately to skee-daddle right back to her office.   Yum!

As for the gout, I've been doing research on line, just in case it turns out to be the issue. I learned in one study that low thyroid levels are linked with gout....and, since every female on the maternal side of my family has some form of thyroid issue (I'm not kidding here) and I have a delicious goiter with all sorts of thyroid nonsense, this is something to consider.  As for treatment? According to the more-famous medical sites, I'm supposed to avoid alcohol (check), not eat anchovies and other little fishies (no problem), stay away from meat, especially organ meat (gag and a check), eat enough carbs (okay, my entire life is one big carb), avoid legumes (uh-oh, this is a problem), say no to mushrooms, spinach, asparagus, cauliflower (wait a minute!) and stay away from fatty foods such as ice cream (HELL NO!). 

I vote I do not have gout.  But, if my spontaneous, painful, unexplainable swelling should return, I know exactly what to do: I am going to get in my car and go to this wonderful medical practice and seek out this foot doctor and I am going to pee in a cup so she can check my uric acid level.  

Until then, I am going to keep eating ice cream......and, I'm gonna avoid alcohol, meat and doctors at walk-in clinics during blizzards.

********************************************************************