Today was my podiatry appointment. This was a new doctor my physiatrist recommended to me. I'm always a little skeptical since the last ortho doctor turned into an ass. (more here)
In general my foot woes only seem to be slightly better, despite practically non-existent running the last six weeks. I found even after a single run, the next day, walking was painful. If I was on my feet all day or had to do a lot of mowing, that too exacerbated the pain.
The podiatrist was nice and diagnosed me as the same self-diagnosis I gave myself after ruling out a stress fracture and already knowing about the arthritis: capsulitis. So the treatment is to try an over-the-counter orthotic called the powerstep for awhile. It is supposed to raise your arch, stabilize your heel, and give extra cushion. The hope is that it offsets the pressure on my second digit and metatarsal area. If this doesn't work, and the pain continues, then I may have to get custom orthotics.
I also gave in and had a cortisone shot. For some reason, I always associate cortisone shots negatively. I think it is mostly due to hearing about athletes who must workout or compete and then wind up abusing it. So cortisone and meds and such are really the last conservative options for me.
The whole thing that boggles my mind about this is how this could have come up now (nearly three months ago with no stringent training and eating okayish). I posed this question to my physiatrist, and all she said was that it was probably in the making and you didn't know it. For some reason, it's a bit saddening to know I didn't know my body or just ignored it (very typical of me) Not like body image which is distorted, but rather the knowledge of how my body was working physically. It's a reminder how we really do need to listen to our bodies more and feet are no exception.
This is the second post related to the book Final Exam. I forgot to mention in my last post that Dr. Pauline Chen has an excellent column in the Health "Doctor and Patient" section of the NY Times. Dr. Chen discusses a variety of issues related to medicine and patient care. In my opinion, she offers some interesting insights.
Like I mentioned in my last post, I find the topic of death fascinating. Not just for the physical aspects of what happens to you after death, but also how people perceive death. In the first chapter of the book, Dr. Chen begins her medical school journey. As with every medical student, the gross anatomy lab is required as well as dissecting a cadaver, a human being that once was. The main objective for the medical student is not only to learn human anatomy, but also to depersonalize themselves with a human being. After all, would they really be able to just cut someone open?
Many cadavers medical students use are from people who have donated their bodies for this purpose. Because some students have emotional difficulty with this particular lab and others develop poor bedside manners, it's one reason why more medical schools have implemented death and dying courses in their curriculum. Other schools also hold ceremonies for their cadavers, understanding the "gift" the individuals have given them.
The cadaver Dr. Chen had (and she goes into lengthy detail as to all the parts of the body which I won't get into here) was a woman who had end stage ovarian cancer. This was not evident until they found the masses in the cadaver's abdomen. For many of the students, Dr. Chen describes it as they were already looking at this as "voyeuristic art."
One of the last parts of the cadaver dissection is seeing the face which had been previously covered. Dr. Chen says:
"somehow I felt that seeing her face--her eyes, her lips, and her final expression--would confirm the life I had tried to re-create in my mind...The eyes, I hoped, would finally tell me the rest of her story. I would be able to look upon her as those who surrounded her during her life had."
Unfortunately, for Dr. Chen, this did not occur, because there were only empty eye sockets where the eyes should have been. The likely case was that her corneas had also been donated. The brain was also removed for a later time for dissection.
As I was reading this chapter, it made me think about my own body. Hypothetically, if I or anyone one of us were dead right now, how would others view our bodies? Would our bodies and eyes tell the tale of our eating disorders?
More than likely, for many of us who live in that "in between" life, it would be hard to tell that an eating disorder lived there or was once there. I think the same would be true for someone who has recovered or is in recovery. Internally, I don't know how much our organs change unless there has already been extensive damage done. And even with that, if someone did not know the history of that cadaver, there could be a variety of hypothetical guesses and diagnoses.
Then, the question is would it matter? We all hear about the survivor stories of cancer, of some horrible medical illness, some awful trauma, sexual abuse, physical abuse, domestic violence, etc. People find all those to be important, to mean something, to realize they have fought and taken their lives back. Though people use the terminology "I survived anorexia" and such, it's still not seen as a really big accomplishment. I think it should not be discounted as it takes a lot of hard work. Certainly, this isn't the only accomplishment in one's life, but it does matter.
I guess in some ways I think it is kind of sad. I obviously cannot predict when I die, and I'm hopeful that I have recovered by that point. But sometimes, there is a hope that my body will leave some mark that I once did have an eating disorder but survived it. Knowing my body, all that will be left are my outer scars--the scars from my hand surgeries, scars from scratches (from dogs, not me), and a scar from what we think was a hot water burn when I was very young, at least that's what I told my parents. These are all external. The internal scars wouldn't be seen. They'd be invisible.
What I find ironic about this is that I go to lengths in hiding the eating disorder both in forms of past and present. But yet, there is part of me after death that wants someone to know--almost like a way of releasing a secret. But then again, maybe my life will be so different at that time, that it won't matter to me anymore. It'll just be another "did this, did that, and got the t-shirt" deal.
What are people's thoughts on this? If your body was opened right now, how would others view it? How would you want others to view it? Does surviving an eating disorder matter to you? Is there importance in leaving a mark of it behind?
*For the record, I have not decided yet whether I will donate my body, but if I do, I hope it is treated with the utmost respect as donating really is a beautiful gesture of generosity.
Last night I caught an encore of the Discovery channel's "The Human Body: pushing the limits." I watched three of the four shows which looked at strength, brainpower, sensation, and sight. The premise of the shows were to give real world examples of how our bodies perform to the maximum when pushed to their limits.
Some of the stories they presented were incredible. A man launched a quarter of a mile thrown onto the ground due to a raging tornado and surviving with no broken bones. The sturdiness of his bones saved him after he had been knocked out by a lamp which made his body limp. Another man slipped while rock climbing and had a half ton boulder fall pin him. He managed to throw the boulder off. He never would have been able to do this except that his body was under so much stress.
One man became lost at sea for 76 days. He survived by eating all parts of a fish, including eyes, liver, etc. Essentially, his brain retuned itself to the missing nutrients his body needed under starvation.
There were many other stories like these. It's a fascinating topic to me. It reminds me how much we take our own bodies for granted. Our bodies were made to adapt and survive. It truly does everything in its power to keep itself sustained when it is pushed to the limit and under tremendous stress. This is a good reminder to to all of us how important it is to take care of our bodies. After all, we all only have one.
