The only way out of my turmoil was to get the shoes off of my feet, and after nearly a month of unyielding bonded resin, I knew I had to see a specialist. My term health insurance had expired, but I saved up enough money to pay cash for an appointment. Without insurance I was at least able to give them my fake name, even if it was the most expensive lie I had ever told. I felt like an idiot as I was seated, writing “foot pain” on the form. As I sat there deciding on how much of the truth to tell, Alexis was eventually called to come in. I felt humiliated as I told the physician what Alexis had done, hoping maybe there was remedy I didn’t know that could separate the shoes from my feet.
My hopes were soon trampled. He told me what I already knew-that epoxy resin was a one hundred percent solid, and that there were no solvents for such glue. He told me I would require surgery, which with insurance would cost thousands. Without, tens of thousands. I didn’t have the money, or anywhere close. I had just spent my entire disposable income confirming what I feared. I came home in disarray, immediately trying to figure out how long I would have to save to afford surgery. I desperately hoped my calculations were wrong, as they were all well over a year, but I knew they were right. My stilettos, and likely my female personna, were to be a part of me for a long time to come. Even longer if I chose to buy some more appropriate work clothes. Still, it never stopped me from giving the heels the occasional tug.
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