I'm sorry, I need to have a bit of a vent. Complete with swear words.
Background: I was born with clubfeet. My mother told me that my footprints were the opposite of a normal baby's. I had surgery at 10 months, but the doctor knew back then it wasn't going to work forever. I'd still need surgery in the future.
I saw Dr. H for the first time when I was 15. He was...not good. He had me wear ankle braces for years--which made my ankles worse. So that's like thanks. Thankfully, this past year, he admitted he's only had one case of clubfeet before [ ] and wanted to refer me to an expert who's in OR.
Well, that was back in December 2009/January 2010. NOTHING since then. Until yesterday. /end
Apparently, there is an Idahoan podiatrists' conference going on this week. This specialist is coming. Dr. H wants me [and another person] to see him on Friday. Only problem: the conference is being held in a town 3 1/2 hours away.
I asked my mom if she would please, please drive me [I can't drive yet]. I told her how long the drive was, I told her that I would print out directions to and from...basically, you know, anything I can do to make it easier, I will do, because I am dying to see this specialist. She agreed last night.
Today, she started bitching about it. "Well, your father said it was a 3 1/2 hour drive." Um, yeah. I told you the same thing last night. It's not like I hid that from you. I didn't pretend it was in town or something. That would have been stupid beyond words. And if we're supposed to be there around 5-6 p.m., I really can't see how "what if we come back at 1 a.m." unless she starts driving through Wyoming on her way back or something. And yes, if she needs to eat, I will buy her food. It's not like it's a desolate wasteland between here and there, you know?
Just frustrates me SO much. This is not a big deal to her. She does not understand what it feels like to KNOW your feet are fucked up, and have always been fucked up. I knew since I was a little, little kid that I didn't walk and run like other people. I can't run. I waddle instead. For that matter, I remember when I went to a church softball practice. My mom picked me up. When I ran out to the car, I was kind of proud of myself for running. I got in the car and she was like, "Seeing you run made my heart break" [meaning that my run was that abnormal...she explained it better than I just paraphrased. ] Thanks, Mom. I grew up practically living in national parks because the surgeon told my parents to take me hiking and camping ASAP because I wouldn't be able to do it later. I was always picked last for everything because I can't run or kick properly [oh, and I have shitty depth perception and balance, I'm sure that helps ].
I have grown up knowing that I am probably going to be in a wheelchair by the time I'm 30, barring a miracle.
And this specialist...offers me hope. That maybe there IS something we can do. And if there's not? Well, at least I'll know it for sure. I'll know it's more a question of adapting to circumstance than trying to change it. And that's ok, too.
But Gawd damn it, I want that option to find out. So my mother better not change her mind and decide that it's not worth it because that will be her reason--it won't be something like she legitimately can't do it. She "won't feel like it."
Kind of want to tell her that she should try living for 22 years with scars around both feet and always wearing out her shoes by walking on the outsides of her feet. Oh, and being treated like an incompetent idiot who can't possibly speak for herself just because she happens to be disabled.
It's not fun.
Background: I was born with clubfeet. My mother told me that my footprints were the opposite of a normal baby's. I had surgery at 10 months, but the doctor knew back then it wasn't going to work forever. I'd still need surgery in the future.
I saw Dr. H for the first time when I was 15. He was...not good. He had me wear ankle braces for years--which made my ankles worse. So that's like thanks. Thankfully, this past year, he admitted he's only had one case of clubfeet before [ ] and wanted to refer me to an expert who's in OR.
Well, that was back in December 2009/January 2010. NOTHING since then. Until yesterday. /end
Apparently, there is an Idahoan podiatrists' conference going on this week. This specialist is coming. Dr. H wants me [and another person] to see him on Friday. Only problem: the conference is being held in a town 3 1/2 hours away.
I asked my mom if she would please, please drive me [I can't drive yet]. I told her how long the drive was, I told her that I would print out directions to and from...basically, you know, anything I can do to make it easier, I will do, because I am dying to see this specialist. She agreed last night.
Today, she started bitching about it. "Well, your father said it was a 3 1/2 hour drive." Um, yeah. I told you the same thing last night. It's not like I hid that from you. I didn't pretend it was in town or something. That would have been stupid beyond words. And if we're supposed to be there around 5-6 p.m., I really can't see how "what if we come back at 1 a.m." unless she starts driving through Wyoming on her way back or something. And yes, if she needs to eat, I will buy her food. It's not like it's a desolate wasteland between here and there, you know?
Just frustrates me SO much. This is not a big deal to her. She does not understand what it feels like to KNOW your feet are fucked up, and have always been fucked up. I knew since I was a little, little kid that I didn't walk and run like other people. I can't run. I waddle instead. For that matter, I remember when I went to a church softball practice. My mom picked me up. When I ran out to the car, I was kind of proud of myself for running. I got in the car and she was like, "Seeing you run made my heart break" [meaning that my run was that abnormal...she explained it better than I just paraphrased. ] Thanks, Mom. I grew up practically living in national parks because the surgeon told my parents to take me hiking and camping ASAP because I wouldn't be able to do it later. I was always picked last for everything because I can't run or kick properly [oh, and I have shitty depth perception and balance, I'm sure that helps ].
I have grown up knowing that I am probably going to be in a wheelchair by the time I'm 30, barring a miracle.
And this specialist...offers me hope. That maybe there IS something we can do. And if there's not? Well, at least I'll know it for sure. I'll know it's more a question of adapting to circumstance than trying to change it. And that's ok, too.
But Gawd damn it, I want that option to find out. So my mother better not change her mind and decide that it's not worth it because that will be her reason--it won't be something like she legitimately can't do it. She "won't feel like it."
Kind of want to tell her that she should try living for 22 years with scars around both feet and always wearing out her shoes by walking on the outsides of her feet. Oh, and being treated like an incompetent idiot who can't possibly speak for herself just because she happens to be disabled.
It's not fun.
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