I just popped open a beer and toasted myself!

My foot hurts but the rest of me feels great. I’ll try to explain why, but first the an update from my right foot: “Nothing definite, but I’m not looking or feeling good. It hurts when Luke trys to walk on me, and the doctor said he might have broke my 4th or 5th metatarsal. Way to go, slick. Sure am glad that Sarah lent him some crutches.”

So why am I joyously sipping a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale when my foot feels like that? Because I went to the doctor by myself today. For the first time in a long, long time. And I made it through without losing consciousness. Since I was a child, I’ve had this irrational fear of medical situations. My childhood memories are littered with visions of passing out in doctors offices or with a stethoscope on my chest. I’ve made it through plenty of of dentist, eyedoctor and physician visits without passing out, but nearly all with my mother or a girlfriend at my side, holding my hand and telling me it’s going to be alright. The problem kept me off my high school football team for two years and was a frequent source of “What the hell is the matter with me” type of thoughts.

So this morning, when I awoke and knew I needed to have my foot looked at, I was filled with fear. I started thinking about who I could get to come with me. Their was no natural choice this time, though. Mom was on Long Island. Dad’s on the west coast. No siblings nearby. I’m single. Sure, I have friends I could ask, close ones who would do it without a second thought and be great with me. As I considered asking one of them, though, I realized it was time for me to do it myself.

I psyched myself up, talking aloud to myself when I was alone. “All right, Luke, you can do this. You’ve got to get healed for trekking (and eating) in Thailand. You’ve got to get better to play volleyball again and be just as good. Come on, be tough.” I think it helped that it was foot that had a problem. I think one aspect of my fear is that there’s going to be something serious wrong with me. And my feet are sort of the the farthest away from me. That’s silly, but true. I can watch someone looking at my foot with much more detachment than I can experience someone looking in my ear or taking my blood pressure for example. Hey, I told you it was irrational. What can I say?

Anyway, I did it. I had a close call, and the doctor talked me back to a relaxed state by asking me about my work and chatting with me about Chelsea Market’s bakeries. We talked about our respective trips to India. (We’d both traveled the backwaters in Kerala…) and I started to feel better.

I’m sure it sounds like a dubious accomplishment, but getting through this today was a minor of a coming of age for me.