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Note: If you have not yet read the previous episodes of this season, I encourage you to do so before reading this post! Thank you for reading.
Cold air grated against my skin as I got out of the van. My mask protected some of my face, but the upper part was exposed, along with my hands.
We walked slowly to the entrance of the grocery store. The cane I held in my left hand was my father’s, and I wasn’t used to it. In fact, I had never taken it out in public before. But the pain had grown severe enough to impair my walking.
I wish I held my head high as I shakily navigated the parking lot. Instead, I kept my eyes low, my shoulders hunched. I wanted to be invisible. A part of me, even then, knew I needed this assistance, but still my heart raced each time another shopper looked at me.
The first few aisles went by smoothly. Inside, my joint softened up a bit, exhaling the relief of warmth. Still, the cane felt awkward, my gait even more so. I limped along with the confidence of a newborn giraffe.
We moved into another aisle. An older woman, the only other shopper in this aisle, turned her head as we entered. I looked at her as she looked at me. A glance to the cane, then to my face, then a very slow pan of my body. Disgust flooded her eyes, and if I could have seen her mouth, I imagine it would have been downturned. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. I got the message loud and clear.
The rest of that trip, I didn’t pay attention to the other shoppers. I intentionally stopped my eyes from settling on them. My throat tightened as I fought back tears. Breathing didn’t seem to come normally; I had to remind myself of each inhale and exhale. How could one woman make me feel so broken?
On February 11, 2021, I still felt inferior every time I picked up that cane. It was abnormal for a teenager to be using a mobility device made for someone much older. The glances and whispered comments told me that.
When I went to see the orthopedic specialist that day, I did not use a cane. I limped in without support. We were going to discuss the results of my second foot CT. I had no faith that this appointment would be any different from the dozen that had come before it.
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“We’ve ruled everything out,” the doctor said to me once we got past the formalities. “It looks like you have arthritis. Specifically, something called post-traumatic secondary osteoarthritis, in your 5th metatarsal.”
My mind flooded with dozens of questions, each one murkier than the last. I fought to retain control of my breathing. A memory came to the surface: me suggesting that very diagnosis to a different doctor eight months earlier, and her rapid dismissal of it.
“What does that mean?” I was finally able to choke out. I was alone in this appointment, my mother waiting outside, so I had to find my own confidence. I wasn’t good at that.
“We can’t do anything for you. There are no surgeries to help. We could fuse your joint, but you’re too young for that.” He met my gaze solidly, but his look was impatient. “PT might help. I can give you a referral for that if you want.”
“Ok, but, what does it mean? Long-term?”
“Like I said, we can’t do anything. Do you want a referral for physical therapy?”
My jaw tightened. I could feel my blood warming up, and knew I needed to calm myself. For months, this man had shown uncanny interest in me. He was attentive in each appointment. Studying an intriguing specimen, plotting different procedures he could use as a teaching opportunity for his students. Now that those possibilities were off the table, he was cold, short, uncaring. His body language said he was ready to leave. He wasn’t interested in me anymore.
I tried to ask a few more questions, but each answer was just as unhelpful as his first. He did manage to confirm that this was probably chronic, although in my upset, I didn’t fully grasp what he meant by that. Eventually, he waved me out with a PT referral and a visit summary.
Back in the van in Walter Reed’s towering parking garage, I held my sobs in. Each nerve ending seared with repressed rage and grief. If anyone touched me, I might have exploded. My body shattering into uncountable atoms and drifting away with the currents of the wind.
I stared down at the piece of paper. “Post-traumatic secondary osteoarthritis in the fifth metatarsal of the right foot.” I didn’t understand the words. What was osteoarthritis? Why was it secondary? I at least knew, very personally, what post-traumatic meant.
In that car, this cluster of esoteric words did nothing for me. They did not give me a path forward, a solution, a way out. They didn’t give me a cure. Although I wouldn’t realize it until far later, they did give me an identity. Or, rather, I used those words to build an identity for myself.
My throat closed up again, and I wanted to force it open with a scream. Instead, I turned to my mother. I channeled all that rage and biting pain into fierce, certain words. “I’m finding a civilian doctor, and you’re taking me there. I’m done with the military. I need answers.”
Ashton Rose 