Thinking about Chris, just now

     I miss Chris. 

                That was originally his name, before Chris Robison the man-boy became the famous writer, Augusten Burroughs. I’ve known him since he was 12. I remember him as a cute but obnoxious pre-teen. I desperately wanted to rescue him when he was mixed up with his psychiatrist’s cult, but there was nothing  I could do, then. I rejoiced when he finally made it out and started his adult life. We talked for hours on end over the telephone when he worked in advertising in Chicago and later, in San Francisco. He would call me, drunk, and we would talk about anything and everything. He read me most of his first book, "Sellivision" over the telephone.  It was a good book – not deep, but funny. Chris was always funny. 

                When I passed my master’s thesis defense, as a surprise, he overnight-mailed me two open round-trip plane tickets to Mexico, for me to take Jack, because I wanted to go. He just did things like that. 

                He built a house on the same street as his brother. In his writing, he could be cruel. I was glad that I never appeared in any of his books, but I was also glad that they were so popular.

                Then, Jack got into trouble with his chemistry. Chris got mentioned in a news report as Jack’s uncle. Chris stopped talking to both of us. Then, Chris broke up with his long-time partner, who I really liked. I always liked Chris, too, but he never responded to any of my communications, not one in the last five years. 

                Periodically, I hear or read something, or just think about something that I think he would find amusing and I stop. I’d like to talk to him to share it but I can’t. It’s like one of us died. 

I miss Chris.

Foot and boot-cast blues

It peeled off today. At first, I thought it was an old bandaid, soaked from my shower. Then, I thought it might be a piece of plastic that somehow had become stuck to my foot. It was neither; it was a thick chunk of flesh, the complete callus that had formed at the base of my little toe, on the side of my foot. Ick!

My orthopedic boot-cast is wearing out; I’ve had to replace the rubber on the bottom twice and the padding on the inside has shifted. My foot had worn a nest, somewhat diagonally, into the padding. A ridge of metal surrounds the foot, originally it was padded with thick foam but now, the bare metal was exposed on an edge near my little toe. My foot is encased in a fabric liner, within the metal and rubber boot, but my skin reacted to the metal chafing against it by creating a thick callus. The callus had recently become painful; it was pressing on a nerve. This was not acceptable. The purpose of the boot is to protect my foot, not injure it in novel ways.

I went to a discount store and picked up some molefoam and a package of callus-removing bandaids. I added the molefoam to the boot, where the original foam had disappeared, and applied one of the special bandaids after my shower. I changed the bandaid after every shower for days. The callus became oddly discolored last week – a dead white - so I removed the bandaid and didn’t replace it.  I also added a thick layer of padding from an old brace to the inside of the boot liner, where it wrapped around my toes, and ignored the callus as it had stopped hurting. Tonight, my foot itched, so I scratched and found myself peeling off the disgusting wad of skin. 

Now, the side of my foot is graced by a crater-like feature. The edges of the callus are still present and it looks odd. I’m going to give it some time for the center to heal; I suspect that the inner area is tender, much like what happens when the top of a blister peels off. In a few days, I’ll sand the rim down with the callus file I got at the discount store. 

I’m glad I can take my boot-cast off at home. I need it in place of a shoe everywhere else because I can’t keep my ankle from rolling sideways when I’ve got a shoe on, but bare- or sock-footed, I’m fine. Except for needing my arch-supporting orthotics. Too bad I can’t glue orthotics to the bottom of my feet. I know! I should invent orthotic socks! All cotton, of course!

Not a pretty blog entry.  Sometimes, life isn't pretty. Sometimes, it's even a little disgusting. So are blogs.