For the past few weeks, I’ve been wearing a slipper on my foot. Not two slippers. Just one, on my right foot. And a shoe on my left. This is playing havoc with my OCD.

The reason I have a slipper is that I recently had toe surgery. I don’t really want to go into the graphic details of why I needed toe surgery, because no one wants to hear about my toes on a good day.

Suffice it to say that I broke my toe way back in September, during parent-orientation night at my kids’ school. And for months after that, the toe kept hurting. On and off.

“When does it hurt?” people would ask.

“Mostly when I run or do pushups,” I’d say.

And everyone’s like, “Wait. You’re athletic?”

Like, “How about you do what I do? Don’t run or do pushups!”

Wow. Why didn’t I think of that?

Point is, my doctor recommended open-toe surgery. It was an outpatient surgery, which means that I went home that day, but also that they had to knock me out. Though actually, I don’t remember being knocked out. I was very tired. I think I fell asleep before they had a chance.

“He’s out.”

“I didn’t knock him out yet.”

“You must have. He’s out.”

So I decided to document this time in my life—keep some kind of medical journal, if you will. This is what a medical journal is, right? I might be on painkillers.

Day 1:

People keep asking what time my surgery is so they can say Tehillim. I feel weird having them do that. There are people having open-heart surgery so they can live. I’m having open-toe surgery so I can do pushups without using my knees.

They just gave me a hospital gown and grippy, non-slip socks to change into. I wish I’d had these at orientation.

They also told me to take everything off and put on this gown. I can’t wear glasses or a watch because they need to access my foot. But grippy socks I can wear.

Well, at least they gave me a bag to put my clothes in that looks exactly like the bag they gave every other patient.

Someone just made a big X on my foot so they know which one it is. (“I forgot which foot. Wake him up and ask him.” “I didn’t even put him to sleep!”)

When I wake up, the doctors are gone, and I’m in a recovery room with a massive bandage over my foot. The surgery was a success, I’m told. I’m alive.

They return me to my wife, who’d been keeping track of which bag was mine and saying Tehillim and seems reasonably happy that I’m alive. They also give me a slipper that fits over the bandage. It’s black, so it goes with my suit, in case I need to wear it to a vort or something, which I do.

I’m not supposed to walk on the foot today. I hope to be able to get out to shul for Shabbos tomorrow night. I don’t really want to use a crutch, because I’m afraid I’m going to overuse it. And then it’s going to become a crutch.

I’m also told that I can’t drive. We don’t want to leave the lives of my entire family in the hands of my foot. So I have to walk everywhere. How is that better?

I’m also not allowed to get the foot wet. At all. This means that I can’t bring it in the shower with me. Where do I leave it?

More good news—it’s supposed to rain this Shabbos. I might have to wear a grocery bag, like those people who walk around all Shabbos with bags on their heads.

Day 2:

I hobble to the shower. I put my foot in my hospital belongings bag and tape it shut.

Oh, hey! So that’s where I left my other sock!

My wife just came home with a raincoat thing that goes over my foot and keeps it dry. I can wear it to shul!

Day 3:

It didn’t rain on Shabbos. Because I had the raincoat.

Day 5:

My bandage was mostly off when I woke up this morning. I decided I would take it off entirely and see if I could rewrap it. I unraveled it, saw what was going on under there, screamed, tried to wrap it up as best I could and lay back as if nothing had happened, trying to forget what I saw. Then my wife came upstairs, and she asked, “What was that scream?” And I’m like, “Nothing… I took a picture.”

My students are constantly asking questions about it. “Sit down and listen to the lesson,” I tell them. “Or I’ll show you the picture again.”

Day 8:

It’s time to go home from school, my ride is here, I have a follow-up appointment to get to and now it’s raining. Because I don’t have my leg raincoat.

I go into the yeshiva’s dining room, where there are still leftovers sitting out from lunch. I take a half-full bag of onion rolls, pour the rolls into another bag, and put the empty bag over my foot. At least my foot is going to smell good for a change.

The doctor changes my bandage and gives me a sock that is open at both ends and that will keep the bandage on. He also wants to know why he smells onions.

Turns out the bandage wasn’t what was massive, my foot was massive.

Day 15:

Now that the stitches are out, the doctor says I can drive as soon as I can get a shoe on. I’m not sure I’m ready to switch out of the slipper. I like that it’s a visible indicator to people that I hurt my foot, so they don’t come out of their way to bump into it, like they’d been doing.

I don’t want to switch yet, because people treat me differently when I have a slipper. For example, as long as I have this slipper, no one asks me to do hagbah.

By Mordechai Schmutter

Mordechai Schmutter is a freelance writer and a humor columnist for Hamodia and other magazines. He also has six books out and does stand-up comedy. You can contact him at [email protected].