Terror in the Shoes

I am not Imelda Marcos, but I did have 56 shoes at last count. I am not Richard Reid, but I am a bit of a shoe terrorist.

You see, I had a plantars wart. There, I said it. It's so hard to admit; sounds so ugly. But it is a pretty common problem, I've learned. It started out as no big deal, but last year it started to mutate into a giant alien. My podiatrist and I waged a ferocious war, knowing full well it was a weapon of mass destruction that must be destroyed. After several months, lots of money, a fair amount of discomfort and much inconvenience for my entire family, it seems that the monster has left my body, although I don't want to jinx anything so I won't say that aloud or even begin to celebrate.

Besides, I don't feel much like celebrating because I'm in mourning. My podiatrist suggested I throw away all my shoes just in case the HPV that causes plantars warts lives on, even without a host, in my footwear.

Throw them ALL away?

You've got to be kidding. There are thousands of dollars wrapped up in those babies, and furthermore a lot of them are actually comfortable. They've traveled to China and Alaska and Chicago with me. They've attended weddings and parties and school plays. They've been splashed by chlorinated water in Idaho and they've been sucked into quicksandlike mud in Texas. It's not that they're gorgeous Prada creations; most of them are actually Danskos and Merrills and Ariats and Uggs and Keens. But they're mine, all mine. They represent me.

They've been loyal to me; I've been loyal to them. They're like kids but they don't talk back. (Okay, some of them do, and that's why I never wear them. And those are the ones I don't mind pitching.)

Yes, I'm attached to my shoes, but I was also raised by a survivor of the Great Depression and I'm living in the midst of the Great Recession, which means I don't like to throw away anything, least of all fantastic shoes in great shape. But I can't donate them because I can't bear the thought of passing on the alien HPV to an unknowing victim.

So I've spent the last few days dividing them into categories: the ones I never wear, the ones that can be washed in hot water, the ones whose insoles can be replaced. The ones I can bear to part with and the ones I can't let go of. The ones I know were never exposed to the wart and the ones who have been intimate with it. And then I recategorize them again, and again, trying to find some way to save the favorites from the dump. All the while, the shoes are lined up one next to the other, looking all innocent, but I know that at least one of them, if not more, is a terrorist waiting to attack once again; like a little rogue band, plotting to reinfect me and recreate yet another episode of podiatric terror.

So here I am, mourning the loss of my little terrorist wonders, waiting for the strength or divine intervention to let them go.

Oh Glorious Foot

Ten days later I am still sitting with my leg up. Actually, I got doctor's permission to hobble around for a week and then she rescinded. Back to crutches and bedrest for my foot.

What I find amazing is how much an incapacitated foot impacts the emotional center of the brain. I am tired, lazy, bored, and depressed. I am tired of not being able to walk the dog, go shopping, stand in the laundry room on two feet folding laundry. Tired of not being in charge of cooking and cleaning and chauffering kids around. Tired of not chasing them down to nag or say goodnight. Tired of not being able to just go out and see the world comfortably, in a vertical position. Tired of shoulders hurting from the crutches.

And it's not just present tense. Because I don't know how much longer I'll be this way, I am already tired in the future. I can't get excited about making plans, like seeing old friends or setting up workshops or whatever. It's like I'm stuck in a void in time and space, watching from a different plane and noticing for the first time just how the foot is connected to the mind.

I know (or at least I hope) that this is just temporary, but it gives me new insight into what millions of people endure in times of illness or old age or both. Being unable to move and do the things you want to do is infuriating and depressing, so how do people do it for months and years on end? Poor Aunt Dottie used to get "stuck" where her feet just wouldn't move when she wanted them to. Later, she was in a nursing home in her final years and got to the point where she couldn't even speak. But what we never knew was what was going on inside her heart and her brain. Was she a vegetable who didn't know any better, who didn't care? Or was she trapped inside her own body, wishing she could claw her way out to see the world again, feel the sunshine on her skin, listen to the train's whistle? Could she remember those trips to Hawaii? The sewing machine humming as she pressed the pedal beneath her foot? Was she longing to once again feel the cold fingernail polish against her nails? Wishing she could go on those five mile morning walks, just once more, on her two healthy feet with her friends at her side?

I promise, yes PROMISE, that when I get my foot back again I will savor the steps I take, through the wet sand and surf on the Big Island or along soft pine-needle blankets on Cascade trails or even on the moving walkways in Ohare International. I will be thankful for how quickly I can get dressed in the morning and for how many times I have to trudge upstairs to wake up my son for school. I will gladly go out in the rain to take the dogs for a walk and I will sign up for a yoga class and show up every time.

How beautiful my sandaled feet will be once more! What strong foundations for me. They connect me to the earth and they move me where I need to go. They give me my life. Oh glorious foot, I can hardly wait for you to get better because then I will regain my energy, my joy, and my freedom.

Getting a Leg Up

Sitting around your house, with your feet up, watching stupid television shows, and having your family wait on you sounds heavenly. For about five minutes. Then, it's pure torture.

Under doctor's orders following minor foot surgery, I've been doing just that for three days now. I finished a book, edited a couple of chapters in my under-way novel, checked email a bazillion times a day, and occasionally ate something. I have asked my kids to return the remote control to me at least seven times a day. I have hobbled to the bathroom only when absolutely necessary. I have endured those pitiful, wanton stares from my black Lab who will never forgive me, I suspect, for abandoning our daily walking ritual.

And I find this whole 'sit back and relax' concept to be a bit overrated.

But I also find that it forces me to take a look around, and a listen, and so on. By sitting here I realize the fireplace needs to be swept and the floors desperately need vacuuming, and it reminds me of how much I hate housecleaning, and dust. I listen to the sounds of water in the pipes after someone's taken a shower or flushed a toilet and it makes me worry: with all the subzero temperatures we've been having, what if a pipe burst? I hear a distant dog bark, somewhere in the back of my subconscious, and it dawns on me that someone (me?) has left the dog out for too long.

I feel the cat rub against the back of my head as she creeps along the top of the sofa behind me; her fur and my hair generate static electricity, and she too wonders about my sudden fit of laziness, as though I had turned into a cat like her. I hear the clacking of my laptop keys; I am thankful my arms are no longer than they are else the thoughts in my brain might dissipate before they get to the keys. The sparkling water, I notice, tastes a bit sweeter than I recall.

Outside, the pine needles quiver as the branches bounce around in the breeze. How often do I even look at those trees? The snow looks like a frozen souffle about to collapse. The sun is shining and the sky is blue but I know they're fooling me; it's still bitter cold and for a brief moment of insanity I am grateful I am stuck inside.

But then I listen to the tense voices, observe the creased foreheads, feel the thickness in the air. The cupboards are almost bare. Christmas is still in boxes. Everyone is tired of the slavery.

The expression 'getting a leg up', I've read, originally referred to the help offered to a horseback rider when mounting her horse. In a way, I feel like that rider. Climbing a big horse can be a challenge for the inexperienced rider; climbing a big mountain poses obstacles for the inexperienced mountaineer. And climbing onto a sofa, to just sit around as a blob, is nearly impossible for the inexperienced couch potato. She needs help.

And with that help, the world begins to look a little different, whether sitting atop a steed or sitting right here on my sofa. Things look and sound and feel and taste (and even smell) a little different right now. And maybe that's a good thing. Sometimes it's good to tweak your perspective on your world. So I think I'll stay put, with my leg up, for a few more days until my doctor gives me permission to put my foot down...and do things my way once again.

Why Ask Why

I spend a lot of time asking why.

Why does my cat act the way she does?

Why do my kids do what they do?

Why can't I stop doing the things I shouldn't?

People tell me to stop asking. It doesn't matter why, they say. What matters is what comes next. Focus on the future, they say.

I get that. No sense dwelling in the past, for sure. But there are some very good reasons to ask why.

One is sheer curiousity about the world. If you stop wondering, then either you've ascended to a divine omnisicient state of being, or you've shriveled into vegetative dormancy. What's wrong with wondering what goes on in the mind of a feline behind those dilated pupils?

Another reason is more of a scientific, theory of causality, sort of thing. A get-your-head-out-of-the-sand sort of thing. If you understand what caused a problem in the past you might be able to avoid the recurrence. In other words, what parenting mistakes did I make with Number One that I can avoid or rectify with Numbers Two and Three?

And third, asking why is part of the process of retelling your story and ultimately having a deeper self-understanding. Reinekke Lengelle and Frans Meijers' article in the June 2009 edition of Journal of Poetry Therapy suggests four cognitive stages in retelling your story: sensing, sifting, focusing, and understanding. I like this.

I sense there are several reasons for choices I make or reactions I have. By asking why, I begin to sift through the layers of reasons until I find one that strikes a chord. I focus on that, spend some time with it, and eventually understand better why I made the choice I did. Why I lashed out at a loved one. Why I ate all that popcorn. Why I keep avoiding the novel I am supposedly writing.

Does understanding then lead to changed behavior? Maybe, maybe not. Does it lead to a heightened state of inner peace? I believe that sometimes it does.

Or does it drive you deeper into the pit of insanity? In other words, does asking why heal the wound or does it actually intensify the pain? I guess it could go either way.

And why, I wonder, might that be?

PS (One more why: why I can't get this blogpost to show breaks between my paragraphs?)

Breast Cancer Awareness

Today I realized there's something strange going on. I've been writing a collection of stories, and a couple of the characters have breast cancer. Well, one has actually already died from it. The other is expecting she won't survive. I don't know why breast cancer showed up in my writing. It just did. I guess it's a midlife thing, but I didn't think too much about it or about what subconscious forces were at work.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I picked up a freelance assignment to write about Sara Fisher and Sara's Project. Sara died of breast cancer in 1992 and inspired a new program in Bend to promote education, research, early detection, and supportive treatment of women diagnosed with breast cancer. Last week I interviewed the woman in charge of the project and one of Sara's now-grown kids. It was an awesome interview.

At the same time, I've been trying to get through this book I picked up about life in the office world. It's a humorous book by Joshua Ferris called Then We Came to the End. I started it a couple of weeks ago but haven't been making much progress, and now suddenly I get halfway into the book and one of the main characters has breast cancer. I guess it was revealed earlier in the book, but it hadn't been a major focus until this point (and I might add that the humor factor has dropped significantly).

So this morning I realize that this is all pretty weird. Breast Cancer Awareness month starts next week, and there's something going on here, some reason that these three sources of awareness have converged in my life. It's sort of an exciting heebie-jeebie feeling, like something is lurking around the door.

I don't know where this will all lead, but one thing's for sure. I won't miss my upcoming mammogram appointment.