“Some women walked into 2017 wearing Louboutins. I strutted into mine in an orthotic boot two sizes too big, leaking plasma and dragging dignity behind me like a bad accessory. The blister wore Prada. I wore frozen peas.”
One week into 2017, I had an unwelcome visitor. It appeared out of nowhere the day after I’d been swimming in Purau, though the location was likely coincidental. When my left foot touched the floor on the morning of Saturday 07 January, I knew something wasn’t right. My heel hurt. On closer inspection, it looked and felt sort of spongy, like a blister in the making.
I tiptoed around on it all day and by evening there were no “maybes” about it. The thing was enormous – like a giant water blister. Not knowing whether I should pop it and risk releasing a tsunami of potentially infectious fluid, or leave it to its own devices, I consulted Dr Google. I wondered if this might be some obscure MS-related phenomenon, but Google didn’t think so. Just to be safe, I phoned the Healthline nurse.
“Is it bigger than a pea?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s quite a lot bigger than a pea,” I replied, wondering what sort of blathering hypochondriac would call an after-hours help line for a blister the size of a pea.
“Tell her it’s bigger than a fucking kiwifruit,” chimed in my daughter, maintaining the fruit and vegetable analogy, albeit with more colour and accuracy.
“Oh my goodness, is it really that big?” came the response—followed by no real advice, other than to wait until Monday and see my GP.
On Monday, the kiwifruit and I went to the doctor. The blister was drained, I was given antibiotics, and sent on my way. By the next morning, it had refilled to its former glory. Walking became painful, and any pressure on the heel sent electric shock sensations up my leg, while my other leg felt oddly weak and shaky. A week later, the thing felt like it was about to explode. I lay on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my heel, and then—mid-TV show—it burst. Everywhere. While there was brief relief, it was quickly replaced by concern: the dark patch under the skin wasn’t just bruising. It was a pressure wound.
Later, I would learn from doctors, nurses, and a wound specialist that the likely cause of this spontaneous monstrosity was night-time leg spasms or unconscious rubbing of my foot against the bed while I slept. It was just bad luck—or bad timing, more like. The wound had arrived during a high-stress period not long after my diagnosis. While I was coming to terms with having MS, I was also having to move house because my current place was unsuitable for someone with a disability. I was navigating the labyrinth that is WINZ, trying to get an insurance protection claim approved, learning to get out of the wheelchair, getting my driver’s licence back, and exploring the possibility of returning to work. I may have been horizontal when it happened, but there was nothing restful about that time in my life.
Three weeks after the blister first appeared, I ended up at Christchurch Public Hospital’s A&E. I don’t really know what I expected—maybe someone who understood MS and could tell me whether I was having a relapse. By 10:00am, I was taken through and the bandage removed. A young doctor looked at it, and later an orthotic specialist assessed me for a boot.
At 4:00pm—after spending the day wandering the hospital with an open, weeping sore—I was finally dressed and booted. Unfortunately, the boot resembled a ski boot, was two sizes too big, and seemed like it might cause more wounds than it would prevent. The idea was clever: the insole had a cut-out section to relieve pressure on the heel, but walking in it felt like trying to ice-skate in flippers.
The next day, the physio team visited me at home and arranged another boot. This one was also plastic, raised but heelless. The problem was unless you wore an identical boot on the other foot, you were even more unbalanced than if you just kept hobbling around on tiptoe. Fortunately, Diamond Harbour has an excellent team of district nurses, and we even have a leading wound specialist in the area. Despite this great care, walking remained a challenge. If I didn’t walk, my foot swelled up; if I did, it aggravated the wound. Eventually, the wound specialist suggested a soft boot—far superior to the previous diabolical contraptions.
In the short time I’ve known I have MS, I’ve learned that it manifests in strange and often very individual ways. My body now reacts in ways that defy explanation. One odd thing I noticed was that whenever the nurses trimmed away dead skin, I’d feel nauseous, icy cold and utterly exhausted. My entire leg would feel like it had been dunked in an ice bucket, but when I touched it, it was warm as toast. While I love the idea of having “sensational legs,” this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.
A week later, I had an appointment with the doctor who’d seen me in the Brain Injury ward at Burwood. I was feeling dreadful. My daughter had gone away for a long weekend, I still couldn’t drive, and a friend kindly took me to the hospital. After an hour in the car and walking (with a frame) to the wrong area of the hospital, then correcting my mistake and walking some more, my foot had ballooned and I felt like my legs were about to collapse.
The doctor, seeing how distressed I was, and more concerned about the toll the wound was taking on my MS than the wound itself, admitted me to Burwood. I was relieved. Managing at home alone would have been tough. Seeing the rehab team again felt like a reunion, and even though I felt I’d declined, they were amazed at my progress since September.
Once in hospital, progress came quickly. An Irish physio arranged proper ‘orrtottic’ boots: a soft one for rest, and a sheepskin one for walking that relieved heel pressure. If I’d known I was going to end up with four new boots, I’d have been a bit more excited—though sadly, orthotic boots aren’t quite haute couture.
I returned home after eight days. The wound was still painful and covered by a stubborn scab, but much improved. Thanks to the diligent district nursing team, it now looks more like a deep graze than a pressure wound. It’s been nearly three months, and while the nurses are impressed with the healing rate, I feel like I’ve had it forever. It’ll still be weeks before I’m bandage-free.
But I’m walking again—on crutches, and sometimes unaided. Best of all, I passed my driving assessment and have returned to part-time work. Having my licence back has brought me a long-overdue sense of independence. At last, I feel like I’m slowly making my way back to the real world.