And somehow a quiet dinner of salmon burgers and corn on the cob turned into our own version of ER! We all know that slicing your hand open while trying to cut a bagel is one of the most common injuries, right? Well, Mom put her own unique spin on this familiar theme by slicing her finger open while trying to separate conjoined frozen twin salmon patties. Overachiever.

You hear about those people who under extreme duress can lift a huge car off of an injured family member? Well, that wasn’t me. But her injury did take my mind off my own little incisions for the evening. I sprang into action, unlocking the mini-van and driving her to our local emergency room. Our friend Cynie came too. It was a party. I even made the ambulance sounds as we headed down the driveway. I wanted to give her “3 liters of D5W and transport as soon as possible!” But I figured medicine has come a long way since Emergency 51. And I never knew what D5W was anyway.

For the record, Mom was really hoping that the first time she appeared in an MoB photo, she would be at some event “looking her best”. The truth is my Mom always looks her best, even when she isn’t trying. Even when she tries to cut her finger off.

People around here tend to favor the larger hospital emergency rooms because they are most equipped to handle well, emergencies. They also are equipped to make you wait for hours. I prefer the small community hospital emergency rooms for any triaging that doesn’t require an IV of D5W.

And I was right. It only took an hour (or so) and we had the coolest P.A. – Kate Berman – who stitched Mom up with expert skill. She had a wicked sense of humor to boot.

Mom: (on learning that she had to get a tetanus shot): A tetanus shot? Isn’t that painful?

Kate: (deadpan) Not as painful as tetanus.

As a brief aside, we did find out that Kate is currently single and is looking for a guy who will help train a dog. She is way cute – and can do the Zoolander Blue Steel and Magnum pose really well. These are the kinds of conversations that go on in the ER between health care providers and family members who are snapping pictures of their kin’s pain and humiliation to post on their blog.

You know, earlier in the day yesterday, before our little drama, I remarked to my Mom that I didn’t have any particular topic to blog on today.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Something will come up.”

For those who have never heard of it, it’s inflammation of the fibrous tissue on the bottom of the heel. For those who have had it, you know how much IT SUCKS. If there was a “plantar fasciitis” ribbon, I would wear it. It would be black and blue because basically it feels someone has hammered the bottom of your foot to a pulp and asked you to hop up and down on it for an hour. It’s the worst first thing in the morning. So each day as the sun rises, I slide gracefully from my beautiful place of respite in my gorgeous night gown, fully rested and at peace and….hobble to the bathroom like Igor in Young Frankenstein.

There is no silver bullet and I have been trying for 10 months to nip this sucker. Here is what I have been doing (based on directives from two very competent physicians):

• Advil
• Celebrex
• Rest
• Cortisone shot (like walking on glass BTW)
• Heel pads
• Night splint
• Temporary Orthotics
• Another cortisone shot (still like walking on glass)
• No rest
• Physical therapy
• Ultrasound
• Active Release Technique (ART)
• Steroid patch

Every medical professional I have seen is very nice to me. But nothing is working. Yesterday at physical therapy (which I refer to as rehab because it sounds so Hollywood), I rode the bike, leaned against the wall, laid on a large yoga ball and did leg lifts, balanced on what can only be described as a rubbery object that resembles a breast while passing a bocci ball between my knees, walked backwards on a treadmill, and let my therapist dig her thumbs into the part of my heel that hurts the most (ART). Sometimes they make me pick up marbles with my toes (that’s fun) or bunch up a towel (that’s not).

Ten sessions with the ultrasound didn’t cure me so I am now wearing a steroid patch on my heel for 24 hours at a time. Positively and negatively charged for my wearing pleasure.

This is what Dave sees when he crawls into bed every night laying next to him. It keeps my toes curled back to a 90 degree angle all night long. Hot, right?

We also have this blue rubber strap thingy hanging out on my nightstand. It’s for strengthening one of the bijillion muscles that seem to need to be stronger so that I can get better. My cleaning lady thinks it’s for something else. And I let her think those things. Somebody should.

So I’m feeling a little discouraged and wondering if I am wasting my time and money walking backwards on a treadmill when I will never be cured. My BFF Alison in Ohio told me last week that she has plantar fasciitis in BOTH feet. I suddenly feel very lucky.

And there is one bright side about this condition: My boys crack up everytime I say “plantar fasciitis”. Not sure why but it never fails to push their funny button.

“Say it again, Mom!!! Pleeeeease!!!”

I love nothing more than to make my boys laugh. It almost makes it worth it. Almost.

Chase broke his arm almost three weeks ago. Being excellent parents, Dave and I only let it go 29 hours before taking him to the emergency room. I