I first learned about compression socks during my first tour of duty at IPR (or InPatient Rehab for the luckily uninitiated) where I used my first wheelchair because they were mandatory – both the socks and the wheelchair.

Those socks were called Ted hose and they were from the devil’s own sock boutique. They were white elastic things that resembled old school knee-highs but were like pulling up the world’s tightest girdle on each leg every morning. Some mornings my favorite aid Tyler would help me pull those godforsaken knee-highs from hell on to each of my poor stiff legs. But being in the wheelchair all day and several of my meds, including the dreaded Prednisone, made my feet swell something awful so Ted hose it was. I hated those cursed things but I hated balloon ankles even worse. Since I had already been dubbed an IPR renegade for trying to break several other rules during my stay, like turning off my bed alarm that played a sing-song electric rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb if you tried to get out of bed without hitting the call bell. Things like that. I was being closely watched, so I acquiesced on the Ted hose while counting the days until I’d be released and could look forward to never wearing compression hose ever again – or so I thought.

I left that round of IPR on my own two feet, without a wheelchair and my feet pretty much went back to normal.

Then after IPR round two, I left with a loaner wheelchair to take home with me like some kind of fabulous parting gift on a game show I never signed up to play and an order for future delivery of my very own custom-fit Quickie 2 wheelchair. My legs were no longer reliable enough for me to live life safely without wheels. I’m still adjusting to this reality, as you know, if you read this blog on any kind of regular basis. That wheelchair life has chosen me and there is really no option to opt out anymore.

When I was home after rehab trip number three the fact that leg swelling was going to be a permanent part of my life led me to explore the wonderful world of compression socks or live with the reality of cankles for life eternal. But it’s more than the cankles. It’s about the way it feels when you feel like whatever biological mechanisms inside of your lower legs are about to burst through the skin that covers your legs. It’s a tingle that is entirely unpleasant. It’s a feeling that distracts me from whatever I’m doing and makes me stare obsessively at my lower legs and curse them for their very existence.

Don’t even get me started about the color my feet turn about three hours into a day in my wheelchair. Remember when the Essie nail color Wicked was all the rage? Or for you OPI lovers, Linkin Park After Dark? Ok. You’re not nail polish obsessed like me but maybe you can imagine in your head the color of the worst bruise you’ve ever had. Or the eggplant emoji. Or your worst attempt at a purple smokey eye…that’s the color my feet turn when I’ve been on a few morning video calls from my wheelchair with bare feet. It disturbs me to my core. I can barely focus on my latest new business RFP when my feet look like giant purple balloons about to burst.

This is where I succumb to the reality that compression socks are a fact of my life. It wasn’t so bad when it was cold and I was wearing long (yoga) pants most days. Once I wore myself out putting on the damn socks on each morning I could mostly go on with my day until I had to tug the damn things off again when the day was finally over and I could elevate my feet.

But finding the right compression socks? That wasn’t easy. As it turns out, I’m rather particular even when it comes to horrible medical garb. Enter my Tolkien-worthy quest to find the best ever compression socks.

Once I clicked on one Instagram ad for the godforsaken things, the wonder of the internet meant ads galore served right to my phone about every kind of compression sock imaginable. Advice from fellow wheelchair users came in direct messages. I was on a mission.

Let me save you some compression sock research and share what I learned. Won’t that be fun?

Comrad looked legit when it came to compression technology but they weren’t for me because they were all black and dark colors so they definitely look like your grandfather’s compression socks. I quickly found that the regular sock-shaped toe design of most compression socks also wasn’t much of a help when it came to my spastic and annoying curling toes on my right foot. I get Botox for those toes every three months but that shit wears off a good month before insurance will approve me for another dose and it’s super uncomfortable and annoying. But I wasn’t willing to give up on regular compression socks just yet. I learn most things the hard way (as you are likely probably already aware) and expensive compression garments just added to my personal quest to keep the pandemic-addled economy moving in the right direction. So I tried more socks.

Go2Socks were supposedly cute with all the wacky patterns and what have you, but my curly toes weren’t having it. And because I rarely wear shoes anymore, the lack of grippers on the bottom meant these socks were basically deadly every time I needed to stand or transfer. Those got donated to my OT who took them so she could hand them out to her other compression-needing patients. LA Active solved the gripper issue but not the curly toe issue. Big disappointment. They also weren’t very effective when it came to compression which is kind of the whole point when one gives in to that compression sock life.

So after exploring the corners of the interwebs and failing over and over at finding the solution to my leg swelling problem, the one true compression sock gold standard presented itself to me. They come from ToeSox. These are compression socks with individual toes in them (very creative name) and they also don’t have grippers on the bottoms but they do offer a full line of regular toe socks with grippers on the bottom so I wear half-toe sox on top of my compression toe sox which is effective but also quite the look. I recently discovered something called the half-toe releve sock that has basically changed my life when full-foot double toe sock action gets a bit hot in the summertime. They also make me feel like a fancy disabled ballerina? Kind of? I once tried to wear my hot pink ToeSox compression socks with some fancy Croc sandles (yes…I actually photographed that above) but my feet weren’t comfy in those Crocs so that lasted about ten minutes.

Also let’s just be honest. Now that it’s no longer long yoga pants season my compression sock situation gets sort of complex. The knee-length compression sock with shorts or summer time dresses (more accurately shorty pajamas, who am I kidding?) is kind of a sad thing. I mean, I do it often because I have to or my legs hurt all day while sitting in front of my computer Zoom-calling all day long for work. Not to mention what swelling does to my already pathetic ankle mobility. Not a good combo.

Nano Socks, TechWare Pro, PowerLix Ankle Compression , and Shocks from Apolla have become decent options for days when I just can’t get past the knee-high compression dread but they simply MUST be accompanied by my Awesome Toes toe spreaders – which for me are a critical tool in my spastic feet combatting tool box. No lie, I broke a pair of Awesome Toes once by wildly ripping them from my toes in the middle of the night when I forgot I had them on and woke up with a foot cramp then I promptly paid for overnight shipping on a late-night Amazon order lest I be forced to get through even a single day without my magical toe spreaders.

This is all to say that being a wheelchair user comes with a bunch of fashion-related challenges I hadn’t considered. Compression socks are just one of them but one of the more unsightly. I somehow forget the simple fact that nobody but me ever sees me during the day when I’m compression socked up and only seen from the waist up while I work.

But I can see them. I can see them all damn day. And somehow I have to teach myself not to give a shit that there’s a good chance if someone happens to pop by my house during the day they’re likely to see me in an outfit that resembles that of the outfit of choice for most 75-year-old grandfather mall walkers. Shorts and compression socks.

We won’t even discuss the fact that Crocs play a role in my life any time actual shoes are required – like if I have to leave my sanctuary in the nature and visit the actual outside world. Though I’m told that Gen-Z has embraced Crocs and they’re all the rage again? Thanks kids.

I’m making light of my wheelchair related body image angst. Compression socks are just one obvious example of the struggle. But I’m working through that struggle with the help of multiple therapists, mindfulness and the frequent use of benzos. Anxiety is no joke, people, and the amazing tool that is the wheelchair has created a level of anxiety in me heretofore unheard of. Maybe I’m making light of it to help me get it through my thick skull that how ridiculous my knee-high double compression toe sock daily uniform looks doesn’t really matter to anyone but me?

I doubt it will help. But it’s worth a shot. And at the very least maybe I can save someone a little money on expensive socks?