Previously:  My sister’s ghost says good-bye to Frank two weeks after her death. We decide to visit Nichole and Jeff again. Together we rent a house on Cayucos Beach for a week. We all tread carefully to avoid any tiffs.  But the nights are cold and I can’t wait to get back to Florida.

Chapter 79 ends:
“It’s your time to visit next,” I reminded them at the airport.

“We’ll see.” Nichole made a face. “I’m still terrified of planes.”

Still, our relationship had taken a turn for the better. Unfortunately, Frank’s health took a blow in October. A botched surgery for a heel spur put him out of commission for six weeks.  Almost a year later, not to be outdone, I had an accident, surgery, and rehabilitation that matched his recovery time.

Hubby wore the same pair of sneakers for years as we traveled to England, France, Italy, Ireland and Russia. I never realized that walking shoes should be replaced at least every six months when used so often. Being more foot sensitive, I did it automatically.

One day, I noticed Frank limping. “Honey,” I said, “You need to buy a new pair of sneakers.”

“Why?  These are still good.” Frank would turn them over to show their soles. “They still have treads. And besides they’re comfortable. I’m not paying forty dollars for a pair of shoes.”

“Forty!  Try eighty. That’s what a good walking pair costs.”

Right there, I lost the argument.  It took chronic foot pain to make him aware that midsole shock absorbers die long before treads. This means the feet have to take over their business. I checked it out on the internet six years too late.

My husband continued to walk with ill-fitting shoes. Over time a heel spur developed on his right foot. He went through three podiatrists who all insisted that exercises and gel inserts would work. I bought him expensive slippers that didn’t bend in half (the criteria for his condition). I spent big bucks on new sneakers too. Would he wear them?

 “They’re not comfortable,” he whined. “Why can’t the doctor just cut out the spur?”

One podiatrist finally gave him a corticosteroid injection that worked for a couple of months.  But since the chemicals cause deterioration in the cartilage of joints, no doctor would give him more than three.

His type 2 Diabetes made him a lousy candidate for surgery. Possible complications included nerve pain, recurrent heel pain, infection, and scarring. That’s for starters. In addition, with plantar fascia release, there was risk of instability, foot cramps, stress fracture, and tendinitis.

The fourth podiatrist on our insurance policy agreed to perform surgery.

“You’ll have to wear a heavy boot for six weeks, even when sleeping,” he warned hubby.

Warning signals should have gone off when he performed the surgery in another room of the building he rented. Later, we discovered two hospitals had denied him use of their place. Dr. Benjamin put him under, made an eight inch vertical incision close to his tendon and removed the spur. Rather than take time to sew the break, he stapled it with ten heavy duty metal pieces.  Just to look at it made me hurt.

Frank could walk in the boot and felt fine after the operation. That night he got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. On the way back, he fell. Working together, we managed to pull his weight back onto the bed. The next day, I bought a urinal!

Thinking back, I wondered if that fall damaged the doctor’s work.  I should have called the next day to report it , but after all, he had a post-op appointment the next week.  

Three visits over three weeks. The staples were removed. Three more visits and six weeks later, the boot came off. Another month passed.

“It doesn’t feel as if it’s healing,” Frank complained on each successive visit.

“It’s doing fine,” the doctor assured him and collected his fifteen dollar co-payment.

I finally insisted hubby get a second opinion. He returned to the first podiatrist we visited. Dr. Efren took new x-rays.

“It looks as if the doctor may have cut the Achilles tendon,” he reported. “If it had been caught right away, it would have been easy to fix. As it is, the rupture is too large now. I can’t sew your own tendon back together but I can replace it with one taken from a cadaver.

At least this time, the surgery was done in a hospital. I sent a report of the botched job to the Medical Board but never heard a word. I did read on a website that this particlar physician was fined one thousand dollars and ordered to take classes. Three months after Frank’s second surgery, Dr. Benjamin had disappeared from the area.

For two months Frank had to stay off his feet. We rented a wheelchair with leg lifts to keep one foot elevated.  That’s when I realized how much he did around the house. Little things that added up.

Now I had to clear the table after meals, fill and empty the dishwasher, carry out the garbage and the recycle box, make his breakfast and lunch and keep the gas tank full.  Worst of all, I had to lift that damn wheel chair into the trunk of the car once a week to have the doctor check on his progress.  Wouldn’t you think a foot doctor would keep a chair in his office?  At least, his female assistant would lend me a hand.  Back home again, I lugged it from the trunk again and assisted Frank out of the car, pulled up the leg rest, and tipped the whole two hundred pounds over the curb and in through the door. Keep in mind I’m five foot two and weighed one hundred and fifteen at the time. Anyone ready to arm wrestle?

Hubby’s foot never did heal in spite of a second surgery to scrape down scar tissue. Our travel days are over. No matter what shoes he wears, he can’t walk without hurting after five minutes.

I include this chapter because it shows  patience and caring for those we don't have to love because they're blood. A good marriage is as strong if not stronger than the bond between children and parents.

A year after Frank and I went through this ordeal together, he got his chance to take care of me. To be honest, most of it just involved hour-long drives to the hospital and later to a rehab center. However, since he wasn't feeling well, it showed the love and loyalty we have toward each other.

To be continued.