Gout

Had a lovely Father’s Day. Tennis in the morning, Alexandria Waterfront Festival with the kids afterward, a movie that night. By the end of it, I was worn out—and limping. The joint of my big toe hurt. I figured I’d sprained the toe playing tennis or something.

The next morning I could barely walk. I got a ride to Metro with Sarah and then hobbled to the walk-in clinic near my work later in the morning. The nurse took my temperature, listened to my story, and said, “Hmmm…could be gout. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.”

Gout? I thought. Never. I’m too young, too skinny, don’t eat much meat or fish or drink much alcohol. It’s not in my family. And if it’s truly the “rich man’s disease,” they’ve got the wrong guy.

“Yep, it’s gout,” said the doctor, doling out prescriptions.

I limped back to work, feeling newfound sympathy for the elderly and disabled as the long blocks seemed to stretch forever in front of me. Last night at the pharmacy I tried out a few canes. They were all too short. I am so not the gout guy. 

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