"Try not to turn on to..."

I'm reaching the point in the recovery and treatment of my foot when stuff I used to be scared of, such as a random burglar breaking down my door and shooting me in the head with a shotgun, is of little horror to me now. Dramatic, I realize. It might just be because today I'm facing not one but two needles - one of which will be inserted directly into my already swollen purple toe - with no assurance that any of the needles, scalpels, drills, pokes, prods, or screws I've been treated or threatened with will fix my foot and allow me to walk again. Surely the fact that I've been dealing with a hole in the center of my first metatarsophalangeal joint for almost a year contributes to the rising drama of my thought patterns.

There are other former horrors: Pack of wolves. Gas poisoning. Crushed by blue whale. Whatever makes the papers is now cool by me.

Antidotes to this syndrome: it's entirely possible that the worst bit is nearly over. This could be the last phase of my torture. Today they're going to take my blood (traditional arm-hole fashion), draw out the platelets and the plasma, (throwing away the red and white blood cells - I wonder what becomes of them), and shoot said platelet-rich plasma into the affected area of my toe, hoping it will eventually spackle over the hole. Then another week of swelling and bedrest, and crutches to get to the bathroom.

Then, if all goes as planned, I will finally begin my rehabilitation. My toe, unmoved these five weeks since surgery, will finally touch treadmill. This will be followed by other kinds of physical therapy that might very well see me bending my big toe, like I used to do in days of yore. I might be allowed to get rid of the medical velcro sandal I've been enslaved in and go back to the orthotically engineered sneakers I had made last summer.

Slowly, slowly, I might just work up enough strength to start to wearing regular shoes and walk again without crutch, cane or swearing.

Two months from now I will have a special MRI called "T2 Mapping," which will determine whether or not there is any cartilage-like substance growing in my joint as a result of this marvelous and not at all scary injection. If the mapping gives a thumbs up - then I will get the toe-ahead. Rehab will continue, and maybe, just maybe I'll be alright forever. Maybe I'll be alright for ten years and have serious problems again. Maybe I'll be alright for three years, then have serious problems again. Maybe I won't be alright at all.

At which point I have two choices - 1) let them open me up again in two places - taking cartilage from my knee and plugging it into my toe. 2) let them open me up in one place again - the toe - and screw the joint shut permanently, so that it never moves again. Apparently people who've had this done have gone on to run marathons. They just can't ever dance ballet or put on cowboy boots. But the fusion is known as a "salvage procedure," to be employed only when there is nothing else that can be done to save the joint. It also requires another two- to three-month recovery period.

Oops, I've descended into bleakness again. But at least now all the facts are out there, in print. Here's hoping that both Mr. and Mrs. Needle are wearing big bright smiley faces and that they bring my big toe a big root-beer lollipop, all the while singing "Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine..." a la Jesus Christ Superstar.

Wait. Maybe not that song. Things didn't exactly turn out too healthy for the guy in that story.

Okay, how about the needles sing any song besides "Put on a Happy Face."

As long as the doctor stays absolutely quiet.