A Foot In The Door

I look around the house to make sure that it doesn’t look like we‘ve lived in squalor since Lars left. And we haven’t. It is just that sometimes I don’t vacuum as often as I’d like. And the cats think the world is their scratching post. Thank God I got rid of the leather furniture. The sofa looked like a carcass they’d clawed apart to avoid starvation.

And soon enough, Lars is in the doorway, awkwardly knocking on the door of the place he called his home for 7 years. I almost pity him. There are at least a thousand people I’ve never been married to and who have never lived here who would be perfectly comfortable just opening the door and walking in. And they’d be welcome to do so. I guess when you sue someone for divorce and try to take all of their money and destroy their happiness, all of that goes out the window.

He awkwardly steps into the foyer, barely inside the door. I can tell he’s uncomfortable and does not know what to do. He nervously pets the kitten and speaks to her even though he is morbidly allergic to cats of all kinds. Thankfully the kids come out to greet him. Or at least Hil does. Pat is more reluctant. I am not really clear on the reasons why.

“How’s your foot doing?” he says when Hil has picked up the kitten and walked out of toxic range.

“Well, it’s seen better days, that’s for sure,” I say, feeling a little awkward myself.

“Want me to look at it?” The question sounds so formal and estranged. You’d never imagine that we ever saw each other naked.

I extend my foot out a bit and hike up the pant leg just a little. He squats to take a better look.

“It actually doesn’t look too bad,” he says. “I mean there is no doubt that it is infected but I was expecting much worse. It doesn’t even look that swollen.”

I am somewhat relieved as he starts to stand again. But then he quickly squats again and says. “Let me see it next to your other foot.”

I put the two together, pleased that my pedicure is still looking fresh. I pull up both pant legs so the feet and ankles are in full view.

He sort of snorts a little chuckle. “Oh, yeah. It’s pretty swollen. I forgot how skinny your ankles are.”

Is it just a comment? An observation? An insult? Or is it a simple memory of familiarity that time and distance has allowed to be pleasant? Like when you look at your teenager and remember the night she projectile vomited and blew out diapers for 6 hours straight the night before your big interview, and can find the zany humor in it now that it is locked away in the corner of your mind?

I decide to look at it as a sign of peace. We’d each taken a step toward each other. Finally. I asked a question that gave him credibility and he demonstrated kindness that I’d not anticipated. And made a little inside joke in doing so. Perhaps my humbling experiences with my job and with Scott have made me less monster and more human than he once recognized. And maybe his life with Liza has finally filled him with enough joy that he doesn’t have to take away mine.

Maybe.

Game On

I have worked all day.

I have fretted for an hour at the doctors office.

I have had my pig-roasted-over-spit foot poked, drained, scraped, turned in every direction (hello, hip replacement) doused with God-only-knows-what and then bandaged. And jammed back into a fuzzy black sock and a shoe, thank you.

I look like Hell. I feel like I have just returned from Hell.

And now I get to see Lars. My nemesis. The man who would relish every minute I spend in pain and suffering. The man who privately rejoices my every bout with economic frailty, who turns a cartwheel every time a man exits my life, who plays the lottery every time the Homeownership Gremlins leave my basement filled with water, my toilet in disrepair or a gutter dangling at a right angle from the roof. Yippee.

I decide that I have had enough of my Limping Nun outfit. I take the stairs two at a time to go upstairs to change. I put on freshly laundered pajamas and a hoodie. No one needs to see me braless in my PJs. I sweep my hair into a clip, brush my teeth, freshen my face with a little powder and gloss, and then yes, wash the black fuzzies off my feet and put lotion on them so I don't actually appear to be disintegrating.

And why do I care what Lars thinks of my feet? Or how I look? I ran screaming from our marriage without a glance in the rear view mirror and have regretted nothing about leaving. Ever. For one second. Why on Earth would his impression of me now matter? Why is it important?

I guess it is this: As much as he has relished every successful attempt to destroy, belittle, marginalize and humiliate me, I have rallied to stand tall, succeed, take things in stride and to rise to every challenge.

Divorce at the age of 42? So what? Lose weight, get in shape, look like a million bucks and buy all new clothes that announce that I have returned to glory and I am bringing sexy back with me!

His friends take his side and turn their backs on me? I find new friends everywhere I look. Friends who would never be the kind of people who just walk away from a lifetime of friendship. And the tried and true friends have stepped up their game, too.

Boyfriend dumps me? Find a new one. A better looking one with a house at the beach and a body that won't quit. Who is younger than Lars.

Lose my job? Get a better one. A dream job. One that the kids are proud of.

So now, just because I am having a problem, I don't want to show my cards and look like I don't actually have my shit in a nice neat pile. I want to keep up appearances. I want to look like "Blister, schmister. I have better things to do than worry about a little old gangrene."

And here he comes up the stairs to my front door. Game time.

Who Is This, Please

Understand that for the past 7 years, while my marriage actively unraveled and my tenuous relationship with Lars deteriorated into full on belligerence toward one another, I have never given him the satisfaction of actually asking him a question.

I've consulted his opinion on something and promptly overridden it.

I've consulted his opinion on something and have experienced the powerlessness of shared custody with a bully.

I've asked for flexibility with our custody schedule and sometimes been granted it. I have never benefited in return from flexibility shown to Lars. Time I give him is just forfeited. Time he gives me has to be returned in kind. I swear he keeps a spreadsheet.

Mostly I just tell him things. In deadpan straightforward directness.

"I am traveling. That is all you need to know."

"I will be away that weekend." Omitting the details about where, who I'll be with and how and if I can be reached.'

"I am not paying for that." Trust me, I have my reasons. I can not begin to waste my breath explaining them to you.

"No. I do not agree." For reasons too numerous to text. "No" is all you need to know.

And I have certainly never given him the satisfaction of asking him a professional question.

First of all, I don't think he's all that smart when it really comes down to it. I think he's a good test taker. He could probably pass the NASA Space Flight Exam if he could get the physical clearance to sit for it. I struggle that he asked once if Hil's damaged kidney would grow back. I am sure the doctor was thinking, "Suuuuuurre! If we could figure out how to grow a kidney do you really think we'd need all these organ donors?"

But in this case, with an amputation to actively avoid, I have a simple medication question.

"Lars, I got a blah blah blah dose of whatever antibiotic. The label reads that I should take 2 doses a day. If you were me, would you take one now and then get the second dose in before bed?"

He seems delighted that I've asked, know-it-all that I am. "Definitely. Get the first dose started right away. That's a really high dose. Make sure you eat something. You may not feel all that great."

What? What is this thing that looks like kindness? I tell him I will and that the kids were nice enough to save me some pizza. "Are you worried?" he asks.

Concern for your children's mother? Where has THAT been hiding? "Maybe a little. I never expected this to be something so big. I almost choked when they wanted to admit me. I was thinking it was just a bad blister."

"I can imagine," he says. "Well, if you want me to look at it when I come get Pat, I can."

I thank him and tell him I'll see him in a minute.

And suddenly I feel weird about all of it.

Lars has not crossed the threshold to our marital dwelling since he left 7 years ago. Has stood outside in the wicked cold and all manner of elements rather than come inside. We've occupied the same car exactly one time in all that time. He has not physically touched me since shaking my hand during the ironically named "kiss of peace" at Mass during one of the kids' sacraments.

And now he's going to examine my foot?

Why am I in a flop sweat?

Pharmacy Follies

With my cartoonishly large caricature foot throbbing to the point of actually making sound, I get into the car and motor to the CVS to fill the prescription. While I wait, I eyeball the 4-point canes with the jazzy Lilly Pulitzer knock off handle covers. I seriously consider buying one. It will make a nice accessory to my prosthetic foot once this one shrivels up and falls off.

The pharmacist is a little concerned about my dose and calls the doctor. Perhaps that dose is reserved only for those in the acute stages of leprosy? The pharmacist looks at me curiously while she is on the phone. I can tell she is wondering where the outward signs of disease will appear. Will my ear fall off and land on the counter with a thud?

I self consciously wait while the prescription is dispensed and my name is bellowed from the loudspeaker (though I am standing right there, impatiently tapping my good foot). I want to strangle the pharmacy tech. Does everyone need to know I am getting a prescription? Does everyone get to imagine what hidden diseases I am harboring? Can't I just limp out anonymously?

Apparently not.

I run into a former co-worker. She wants to know all about my new job.

I run into a neighbor. She wants to know why my car was at the curb all Summer.

I run into an old babysitter. She wants to see pictures of Hil and Pat all grown into teenagers.

I am losing steam. I am running out of good will. I am fresh out of patience. I look like death warmed over. I am forcing an unconvincing smile to my miserable face.

Please leave me alone.

I drive the last two blocks home. I usually would make this trip on foot. Not tonight. Surely I'd be found dead on someone's lawn between my house and the CVS. I greet the kids while I multitask opening the prescription, which is sealed as though it may have to circumvent the moon in deep space.

"Two pills a day" it reads. It's 7:30.

I call Lars.

"Hey --- I am home. The kids have eaten. If you need to pick up Pat you can."

He is morbidly curious about my doctor's appointment. I secretly want to scramble his brainwaves and tell him it was an obstetrical visit. But I don't. I tell him the whole story now that I have been sprung from captivity.

He has loads of questions. He must be bored. I have never met a man more unnaturally lacking in curiosity than Lars.

But I go along with it. I need him for something. I have a question, too.

"Lars, can I ask you something?"

It is such a rare question for him that he is stunned into silence.

Let's Make A Deal

Since all bad news tends to land in one big shit pile, it makes perfect sense that it would be Lars on the other end of the phone. The Ladies in White leave to discuss my necrotic limb.

He needs to come over to get Pat for some project he's helping him with (Pat is 15. Unless he is building a model of the Space Shuttle to scale, I doubt that there is any parental input needed for any project the school can dream up as a method of torture.)

Can he come over and get him after dinner?

Well yes, but dinner is sort of up in the air at the moment, considering the Ladies in White are about to throw a net over my head.

I contemplate the loaded question.

"Well, you can...but we have not eaten dinner yet. I am not home."

He immediately assumes I am consumed with my new job and ignoring the children because I like the people at work better. It's his rallying cry. And how he justifies that he hasn't worked a full day since Jesus wore short pants.

As he sighs that sigh that suggests that I am a hopeless excuse for a parent, I tell him that I am at the doctors with a foot injury and that they are not sure I do not need to be admitted. I purposely leave out the details of said injury. Let him think that I mangled a limb with the lawn mower. A blister gone awry seems so pathetic and avoidable. He'd just heap on more blame.

He asks if he should pick up the children.

Of course he does. If I am discharged and sent home, it would be a most safe and caring thing to do to ensure that I suffer and die alone. Who needs company during times of pain and suffering anyway?

I tell him I need to call Pat and Hil and tell them to make a pizza for dinner and to please not argue over which one. And that I will call when I am on my way home, because darn it, I am not taking a spin in the ambulance to the ER to be admitted for a blister.

Hil reads me like a book when I call. Asks if I am coming home at all. She must share some DNA with Charlotte. Never misses a trick, even if I am doing my darndest to sound cheerful to the point of mania.

The Ladies In White return. I immediately launch into a diatribe about my new job and kids at home. Play the single mother card. I have cats. One is blind!!!!

They are shaking their heads. I am frantically devising an escape plan, even though my pants remain slung over a pleather chair.

Thankfully, they are Let's Make A Deal gals. They will write a sky-high dose of an antibiotic if I promise and swear to keep an appointment they are making for me to return on Saturday afternoon.

I raise my hand, Girl Scout style, and swear on everything I know to be holy.

I snatch the script, put on my pants, grab my purse and run out the door. I hand my business card to the rude job seeker and disappear into the night.

I am running so fast I do not even realize that my foot is throbbing and feels like I just ran across hot coals.

I hesitate at the car door.

Am I making a huge mistake?

One Foot Out The Door

Not that I am a mind reader, but Charlotte clearly meant business. If she did not already have her Spidey senses on high alert, she would have just said she was checking in. This was a specific question. Her way of simply beginning to scratch the surface.

Channeling Florence Nightingale, for sure, she had heard me mention the foot at least a dozen times, seen me wince in uncharacteristic pain a few more times, and had mentally filed through her 3 by 5 cards of nursing school notes to assess the situation. She doesn't need to diagnose. She just needs to know it falls outside the range of normal.

Please. I spend two thirds of every day outside the range of normal. This should shock no one.

I call her. I can hear her figuratively tapping the toe of her white-shoed foot on the kitchen tiles.

I downplay the situation.

She's odnto me in a minute. I am like the diabetic who ate the Twinkie and is standing there holding the cellophane wrapper claiming to have no idea why their sugars would be off the charts.

Can you send me a picture?

Eeeeewwww. I don't even want to look at it much less take an police photo of the crime scene. Yuck.

She asks me if it is hot.

Hot, well, no. Hotter than the foot that is not propped up on the trash can, yes. But hot is a relative word. What do you mean by "hot" exactly? How hot is too hot. Feelin' hot, hot hot!

She takes that "Don't make me call you an idiot" tone I can recognize in the lowest of volumes. "Liza....."

OK OK OK. I will find an urgent care facility on the way home. I will drive there with my 2-pounds-of-ground-chuck foot and let them grimace and quickly write a barely legible script just to get me to put my sock back on and leave. They are unaccustomed to such gore at the Urgent Care. They are more the Strep Throat culture threshold for grossness.

Charlotte is not convinced. Calls me on the way to make sure my car doesn't accidentally just take me home.

I check in. I give the lady at the desk my information. She asks for a job with my company. Off to a great start. No one cares about my foot but Charlotte.

I limp to the pleather chairs area and sit down. Suze Orman is yakking about financial stability in that preachy voice of hers. I find a magazine and engross myself in a 3 month old article about Matthew McConaughey.

I get called in just when the article begins to get interesting. It is the way the world works. Walk away from the elevator to take the stairs and suddenly the elevator will appear.

I am asked all the usual questions. Am measured for height and weight and get my blood pressure and temperature taken. Nothing to write home about.

The Medical Assistant asks me what I am there for and then asks me to remove my sock. And then my other sock.

Practically fainting from the sight, she leaves the room and returns with the Nurse Practitioner. She looks at my foot. I look at my foot. It is even looking more spiffy now that it has spent the day in black wool socks. A little black lint does a lot to improve the appearance of an inflamed body part, in case you ever need to know that.

She pokes and squeezes and pricks the heel with all manner of instruments. I look away secretly wishing I'd brought the Matthew McConaughey article into the exam room (with all its germs.)

Once the NP is happy with the volume of goo she's been able to render from my ailing limb, she leaves the room.

A few minutes later a doctor comes in. She goes through largely the same exam with a little less emphasis on getting blood from the stone my foot is rapidly becoming. She looks at my good foot. She looks at my face and my eyes. She checks all my glands, which against all logic, requires me to take off my pants. I am sure I am in some kind of alien experiment.

She leaves. Both ladies come back in after what seems like an hour.

They look at each other and then to me. I am sure I am about to be told I have gangrene and there is an amputation in my near future.

One decides it is her responsibility to speak.

"We are on the fence. We think we may need to admit you for IV antibiotics."

As I swoon, my phone begins to ring.