Footloose (But Medically Supervised)

It finally happened. The day I’ve been counting down to since October 27, 2025. Mark it, celebrate it, maybe even throw some confetti (carefully, nothing that could injure a foot): I have officially been released from wound care.

That’s right—I graduated. There was no cap, no gown, and frankly a shocking lack of cake, but I’ll take it. The foot is 98% healed, which in medical terms apparently translates to “you’re free, go live your life.” The remaining 2% is a tiny scab/callus situation that now falls under the category of “don’t do anything dumb.” A category I intend to respect… mostly.

On the drive home, I found myself reflecting on this whole saga—because apparently surviving a medical ordeal turns you into a philosopher whether you like it or not. For 56 years, I’ve been cruising through life under the delightful illusion that nothing major would ever happen to me. And honestly? That’s a pretty solid streak. Fifty-six years, one major issue. Statistically, I feel like I was winning.

But wow, when something does happen—game on.

Now, I know there are people who have faced far worse. I’m fully aware of that. This wasn’t, say, climbing Everest with a broken leg or battling something like cancer. But here’s the thing: when it’s your thing, it’s big. It’s overwhelming. It’s your personal Everest, even if it only involves a foot and an alarming number of medical appointments.

And oh, the appointments. The doctors. The specialists. The insurance calls that make you question all your life choices. At one point in February, I hit my limit. I was mentally drafting my retirement from healthcare altogether. “That’s it,” I thought. “I’ve had a good run. No more appointments. I’ll just… wing it.”

Don’t worry—I didn’t actually do that. But the thought? Oh, it was there.

Then there was the small, totally chill realization that I had come a little too close to something much worse. One of the infectious disease doctors casually mentioned that if I had waited another day or two, I might not have been sitting there having that conversation.

You know. Just a fun, light comment to really spice up your hospital stay.

That one stuck with me. Especially since I’ve had family members who passed from sepsis. I used to wonder how that even happens—how someone doesn’t realize how serious things are getting.

Well. I get it now.

So yes, along with the joy of being done, there’s also a little fear tagging along like an uninvited plus-one. I never want to go through this again. Ever. And now that I know what can happen, there’s this tiny voice in my head that’s like, “Hey… what if you mess up and end up back there?”

Cool, cool, cool. Thanks, brain.

But I think that’s part of the deal. Your brain’s just trying to keep you alive, even if it occasionally turns you into a slightly paranoid foot inspector.

Which brings me to my new lifestyle:
– Special shoes (because my pinky toe has apparently chosen a new direction in life)
– Nightly foot checks (because we are not doing surprise infections ever again)
– A general awareness that feet are not to be taken lightly

Honestly, if “special shoes” are the price of freedom, then sign me up. Comfort over chaos, every time.

And here’s the surprising part: I’m actually grateful.

Not for the wound itself—let’s not get carried away—but for what it forced me to learn. It shifted my perspective. It made me more aware, more appreciative, and maybe just a little tougher. Also slightly weirder about my feet, but that feels like a fair trade.

So here I am—newly graduated, slightly cautious, rocking what I affectionately call my “troll foot,” complete with a pinky toe that’s heading south for the winter.

And somehow, I still feel incredibly lucky.