The permanent impermanence of a broken foot

I got a little souvenir last week from Spain that I didn’t even have to buy.

Some souvenirs we get after the trip. 

Last week, after I’d been home for more than two weeks, I finally went to see a doctor about a foot injury I got during my last few days in Spain. 

I rolled my foot on a small rock on a hike in the mountains south of Granada, and rather than go see a doctor there, which I should have done, I hobbled around for two weeks before finally getting it checked out in Austin. 

The break on the fifth metatarsal was clear on the X-ray, but it took another week to finally see a specialist to find out that it wasn’t going to require surgery. Just a lot of patience and a walking boot. 

I haven’t been in much pain, but the discomfort of not knowing was unpleasant. 

Much more unpleasant than another souvenir I got, ironically, on the same day as the X-ray. 

My dear friend (and tattoo artist) Bart Willis leaves Austin for four months every year, so when I emailed him from Spain to request an appointment for my next tattoo, I knew I’d have to try to see him in June or else wait until October.