Something is missing

I was texting a friend before surgery about having the joint removed from my pinky toe. She casually asks, “So what are they replacing it with?”

Replacing it?

I froze. It had genuinely never occurred to me that something might need to go back in there. I’ve never shopped for toe parts before. Is there a catalog? Do I get to pick between standard issue and deluxe model?

Fast forward to my pre-op appointment with Doc M. He’s explaining things, using doctor words, being all calm and competent. I decide this is my moment.

“So… what are you putting in its place?”

He slowly looks up at me with an expression that very clearly says, Ma’am. Please keep up.

Very calmly he explains that because there’s an infection, they can’t “introduce” anything new into the toe. Nothing goes back in. It’s just… gone. In the future, if I want to add a bone-like item, we can discuss it.

A bone-like item. As if I’m accessorizing. “Oh yes, I’ll take the seasonal bone insert, please.”

He leaves and I sit there imagining my poor pinky toe hollow and unsupported. Is it just going to flop around like a fish out of water? What’s keeping it from wandering off from its little toe friends? Is there a toe support group?

At my first post-op appointment I ask the truly important question: “How is the toe going to stay close to its friends?”

Doc M, without missing a beat: “You may find that you stub your pinky toe more often now.”

Excuse me, WHAT? That was not comforting. That was a threat.

I’m still deeply unsure what’s happening inside my foot at this point. I’m picturing an empty cave where a joint used to live.

Then at the second post-op appointment, he pulls up the X-ray.

It’s like a magic trick. Now you see it, now you don’t. I’m staring at the screen thinking, “Sir… that appears to be a disappearing act, not a joint removal.”

The entire section of bone looks gone. Gone-gone. I had been walking around thinking, “They’re just taking out a little joint.” No. Apparently we went full renovation. HGTV: Toe Edition.

I even looked up a normal foot X-ray. There is very clearly an entire bone there in other people. I, however, am now rocking the minimalist version.

But here’s the thing: the incision is healing. The infection is clearing. Everything is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do. And at this point? I don’t particularly care if a whole bone packed its bags and moved out.

I still have a pinky toe. It may be lighter, freer, and slightly more accident-prone… but it’s still there.

And honestly, that feels like a win.

Finally...some good news

This foot adventure has been exhausting in ways I didn’t expect. The constant ups and downs really take a toll on your emotional reserves.

It feels like every time I take one hopeful step forward, I’m pushed several steps back. It started as just a sore on my foot… then came the infection and a hospital stay. After that, things seemed to be improving. I let myself believe we were turning the corner.

But then another infection surfaced — or more accurately, the old infection flared back up once I stopped the antibiotics. That led to a second surgery.

In the pre-op room, Dr. M gently but clearly told me this might not be the last one. If the pathology showed infection in or around the bone without safe margins, I needed to prepare myself for the possibility of yet another surgery.

As he walked out of the room, it took everything in me not to fall apart. I had convinced myself this surgery would be the fix. That I was finally in the home stretch.

At my follow-up with Wound Care and Infectious Disease last week, Dr. L explained that while the cultures had identified the bacteria — Enterococcus — we were still waiting on the pathology report to determine whether the infection had reached the bone. If it had, I’d be looking at several weeks of IV antibiotics. That would mean getting a port placed and learning how to administer the medication myself.

I left that appointment feeling deflated. Trying to stay positive, but definitely heavy.

And then today — finally — some good news. Dr. L left a note in MyChart. All good.

The relief that washed over me caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until I could finally exhale.

I’ll admit, earlier in the day I “cheated” a little when the pathology report came through. It made absolutely no sense to me, so I dropped it into ChatGPT and asked it to dumb it down for me. It sounded promising… but I’ve been down this road before. I wasn’t letting myself believe it until I heard it directly from my doctor.

If I’m being completely honest, I think I’m still holding my breath just a bit. Part of me is afraid to fully trust that this might finally be the last hurdle.

I guess only time will tell.

Stay tuned for the next chapter.

My very first car

I was turning sixteen, and like every sixteen-year-old in America, I wanted a car. The answer from my parents? Always the same. “No.” Or my dad’s favorite: “Save your money and buy your own.”

Then one afternoon, everything changed. I heard the rumble of a tow truck outside. Dad was standing in the driveway, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Behind the tow truck was… well… a beast.

A 1971 Ford Country Squire. With wood paneling.

Oh Lord.

This thing had clearly lived several lives before arriving at ours. It was massive. Faded. Slightly sad. It smelled like it had opinions about disco.

Dad proudly announced that a buddy of his said it was ours. Free. Completely free! “All it needs is a new battery and four new tires,” he said cheerfully.

He offered to cover those. My responsibility? Pay the difference in insurance for being added to their policy, plus maintenance and gas.

Deal.

The car was enormous. It could seat nine people—which meant it could seat nine teenagers. Suddenly, its size felt less embarrassing and more legendary.

We got it running. Dad filled the tank for the first time. And just like that, I had wheels.

There was one rule: I could only drive it to school on days I had band practice. I mostly followed that rule. Mostly.

Some of My Favorite “Country Squire” Memories

1. The Gas Tank Incident

Our family friends Dick and Marianne Holly were visiting. Dick struck a deal with me: if he could use my car while they were in town, he’d fill up the tank. Done. At the end of their trip, Dick stormed into the house looking completely flustered.

“You didn’t tell me it had a 20-gallon tank!”

Honestly? I didn’t know. That tank had never been full under my ownership. My gas strategy was simple: feed it spare dollars and hope for the best.

2. The Manson House Adventure

One night, Laura and I decided it would be a brilliant idea to drive out toward the Manson house in Quartz Hill. It was pitch black. No streetlights. Just a long, dark road. And then… the car started fluttering. Not fully dying. Just threatening us.

We turned that long boat of a station wagon around as fast as physics would allow and got out of there before it left us stranded in horror-movie territory. We did not look back.

3. The Permit Prayer

One summer day, I decided I needed a sandwich from a grocery store about a mile away. I still only had my permit. But surely no one would know. I’d be quick. I made it there. But when I tried to leave? The car flooded. I sat in that massive driver’s seat, alone, praying like my life depended on it.

“God, if you let this car start, I swear I will never do this again.”

It started. And I never did. Looking back, that old wood-paneled land yacht wasn’t just transportation. It was freedom. It was friendships crammed into bench seats. It was small rebellions, big lessons, and the smell of gasoline and possibility.

That 1971 Ford Country Squire may not have been the car I dreamed of at sixteen.

But it was exactly the one I needed. 

Plot Twist: The Toe Saga Continues

So… it turns out I have a stubborn infection hanging out in/around my pinky toe joint.

Because of course I do.

I genuinely thought I was nearing the finish line. The wound was healing — slowly, yes — but healing. I had mentally circled the end of March as my “freedom date.” I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Apparently, that light was just the reflection off an X-ray machine.

A couple of weeks ago, I went back to the podiatrist for what I assumed would be a routine check-in. He took one look and wasn’t thrilled.

“This should be further along,” he said That’s never what you want to hear.

He sent me for X-rays to see if there was still an infection lurking around. And sure enough… there it was. Still alive. Still thriving. Apparently unimpressed by the army of antibiotics I had already thrown at it.

You would think nothing could survive that level of pharmaceutical warfare.

You would be wrong.

Next option? Surgery. Remove the joint.

Ugh.

Surgery day arrived. We checked in, waited in pre-op, did the whole hospital shuffle. The doctor came in to go over the plan one more time.

He examined my toe and casually asked: “So are we taking the whole toe or just the joint?”

I’m sorry… what?

That was not previously presented as Option A.

As far as I was concerned, we were removing the joint. I’m still fairly attached to my toe — literally and emotionally — and would prefer amputation to remain a last resort.

He nodded, signed my leg, and said he’d see me in the operating room.

Which, oddly enough, I had to walk to myself. Nothing like strolling into your own surgery with your white butt cheeks hanging out the hospital gown.

They placed me on what can only be described as the world’s least comfortable table. The anesthesiologist explained she’d start with oxygen and then the “sleepy gas.”

She put the mask on and asked, “What’s your favorite vacation?”

I never answered.

Didn’t get a word out.

Lights out.

The next thing I knew, I was in recovery.

Phase 1 for about 15 minutes. Then Phase 2, where Janet met me. The nurse gave us post-op instructions, and just like that, we were heading home.

From my perspective? Everything went smoothly.

Minimal pain (thank God). No drama. No horror stories.

Now we wait.

The doctor did say there’s still a chance I could need another surgery. But I’m choosing hope. I’m choosing to believe this one did the trick.

The first surgery was done cautiously. The hope was that removing the initial problem area, combined with antibiotics, would wipe out the infection throughout the toe.

It didn’t.

So, this time, they removed the joint entirely and sent samples for culture.

And this time? We got an answer.

Enterococcus.

Finally — a specific bacteria with a name and a targeted antibiotic to fight it. I’m now on medication designed specifically for that stubborn little invader. And that gives me something I’ve needed through this whole saga:

Hope.

Maybe this was the missing piece.
Maybe this was the right move.
Maybe this is the beginning of the real recovery.

I am more than ready to put this chapter behind me.

Fingers crossed. Toes… still crossed too.