Before I jump into the daily updates, I need to pull all these days together and explain how we even got to surgery in the first place.
So, as many of y’all know, I work for a neurosurgeon. And when a neurosurgeon tells you, “Lisa… you really need to do this surgery,” you don’t argue. You don’t negotiate. You don’t Google. You just say, “Okay, Doc,” and start preparing your spirit.
This wasn’t just any surgery — this was a plantar fasciitis release with the removal of a heel spur. Cute, right? My doctor made it very clear: after physical therapy, after a shot that lasted less than a month, after all the limping and inflammation, I had reached the point where surgery wasn’t optional. And since you can only get three shots a year, baby… it was time.
So surgery it is.
Day 1: Post‑Op Reality Hits
Now, remember that “daughter” I mentioned? She’s actually my niece, but I raised her, so she’s my daughter in every way that counts.
And let me tell you something — she thinks she is a whole nurse. A certified nurse. A specialty‑trained nurse. A nurse practitioner on the weekends.
Always got something slick to say, snapping pictures, documenting my weak moments like she’s filming a medical documentary. But in all honesty… she has been God‑sent. Even when she’s doing the most.
Now, back to this surgery.
They load you up with narcotics. And BABY… I see why.
Because when that medication wears off? It feels like somebody dropped a ton of bricks on your foot and then started tugging on your pinky toe for fun. I had my surgery on 10/9, and when I came home, I was high as a kite. Floating. Vibing. Not a care in the world.
The next day? Straight to bed. And honestly, you have no choice but to do exactly what the doctor says.
My Circle Showed Up
My circle… listen… they are everything to me. People were coming out the woodwork to check on ole girl.
Those honorary sisters? They fell right into place like they had rehearsed it.
And my son — the one who does his own thing, the one who “forgets” everything except the fact that I’m helping him through grad school — he stayed home one full week to make sure I was straight.
But the only problem?
He had TOO MUCH of a watchful eye.
“Ma, should you be up?” “Ma, are you supposed to be doing that?” “Ma, can you eat this?” “Ma, don’t put weight on that foot.” “Ma, sit down.” “Ma, elevate.” “Ma, don’t elevate too high.”
Ummmm… sir… what day are you heading back to school?
I love him when he’s home, but I also love him when he’s at school. Balance.
The First Three Weeks: The Real Deal
Week 1: You’re swollen. Your toes don’t move. It feels like they cut off all the feeling in your toes and mailed it somewhere.
Week 2: First post‑op appointment. They take off the bandage and let your incision breathe. You feel like your foot is finally meeting the world again.
Week 3: Stitches come out. Not painful at first… But the next day? HURTS. LIKE. HELL.
Now Let’s Talk About Mr. Ace…
My first day home, on the scooter, Ace was glued to my side. Every move I made, he made.
Bathroom? He went in too. Kitchen? Right beside me. Living room? On guard.
The first week, he tried to kill me. Cut me off at least four times. Almost made me fall off the scooter trying not to run him over. He was so busy trying to “help” that he almost made me pee on myself twice because he wouldn’t move out the bathroom doorway.
Oh, what a time.
He was getting up with me every single time I moved — even in the middle of the night. Now, this week? He’s finally catching up on his beauty rest. My baby is exhausted from being my personal 24/7 security detail.
Where I Am Now
I’m non‑weight‑bearing for 4 weeks, and the swelling has finally gone down. I go back in 3 more weeks, and they’ll determine if I can start physical therapy.
This journey has been something else… but trust me, I’m taking y’all along for the ride.
To be continued… 👣❤️
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