Stepping through pain into gratefulness

It was not part of the plan. Or, at least, not my plan. I guess you could just call it life.

One morning, after returning from four weeks in California (where I'd welcomed a new grandbaby and tried to help by riding herd on her two older brothers), I stepped out of bed and put my feet on the floor.

Suddenly, for no reason, a mean little man with a nasty evil grin jumped out from under the bed and stabbed a rusty ice pick through the top of my left foot.

Figuratively speaking, yes.

I took another step and he stabbed it again. This went on all day, the stepping and the stabbing and the screaming.

Over the next few days, I became painfully aware that everything is connected (the foot bone to the ankle bone to the knee bone to the cussing).

Trying to dodge the ice pick, I developed a limp. Remember Walter Brennan? If you do, you are older than I am and might not care to admit it. His limp was more attractive than mine.

Limping threw everything off balance, including my life. My whole body hurt. Even my hair.

I kept thinking surely the little man would get tired of stabbing me and go pick on somebody else. My husband, maybe. Not that I would wish it on him. I'm just saying. An ice pick in the foot makes you a wee bit cranky.

Funny, isn't it, what we tend to take for granted until we lose it or it starts to hurt?

My brother deals with pain as an everyday, ordinary part of life. He's also blind and suffers from cerebral palsy, needs a walker to walk, takes a cab to get a burger, doesn't take much of anything for granted. I had to wonder: What would he think of my story about the little man planting an ice pick in my foot?

Finally, after a week of pain, I went to see a very nice foot doctor with a very busy office. The waiting room was packed with all sorts of bad feet: People in wheelchairs or on crutches or riding on one knee on a scooter.

The doctor studied my foot, took x-rays, shook his head and matter-of-factly announced the little man's name: Arthur Itis.

I knew it well. I'd heard it often, spoken with an angry hiss by my grandparents and parents, all attacked in their latter years by Arthur's ice pick.

"Wait," I said. "Doesn't Arthur usually just pick on old people?"

The doctor smiled, glancing at my chart. "How old are you?"

I gave him a look. "Never mind," I said. "Can you fix it?"

"Well," he said, "we can try."

I almost kissed him. When you're talking ice picks, "try" sounds like a miracle cure.

He listed several options or a combination thereof: Orthotic inserts in sensible shoes that would realign my instep and make me look like a Clydesdale horse; a cortisone injection with a very long needle; or surgery to fuse the joint, followed by six to eight weeks during which I'd need to use a wheelchair or crutches or a scooter.

The scooter sounded like fun. But I opted to start with the injection. It didn't hurt much. Not half as much as the ice pick.

Then I was sent home to ice my foot off and on to make Arthur chill out, so to speak.

That was yesterday. This morning, I awoke, set my feet on the floor, took a few careful steps and ... hallelujah!

It hurt just a twinge, but no ice pick. I looked under the bed. No sign of Arthur. Maybe he was hiding in the closet, biding his time, waiting for another day to jump out and stab me again.

But for now, he was gone, and I was ecstatically grateful. I'd have danced about the room, but didn't want to push it.

My mind began to race with plans to do all the things I'd been putting off for days — unpack, clean house, shop for groceries, wash my hair ....

Then it hit me. Another stab. Not in my foot. In my heart. I needed to call my brother.

It's easy to take some things for granted. But it should never be the people we love.

Sharon Randall
(TNS)

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Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."