Footfalls
My car, Fred, has broken down – again and again and again. My feet, particularly my left foot, has broken down in sympathy. My friend, Gerti, maintains that life is trying to tell me something – “Like, rest, Noeleen!”
Fred’s problems have ranged through the exhaust coming off, the alternator needing to be replaced, and, ultimately, a blown head gasket – and that’s just in the last three weeks. My patience with Fred finally blew along with the head gasket. I’m now trying to source another, more reliable, old car. …Maybe like my Sweet Caroline… (Even in cars, you see, women are more dependable.)
My foot problems started with a pain in my right instep, spreading out into the toes of my right foot when I tried to walk any distance at all. Then my right foot eased and my left foot produced exactly the same symptoms, but this time it continued to get worse. Driven to the doctor (in both senses), he said it could be a small ’stress fracture’ due the sudden onslaught of activity that followed my three sedentary months as I struggled through work and evening course. Like a child out of school, I climbed Bray Head, dug the garden, and generally refused to come back indoors until I couldn’t see any longer at around 11pm.
The other thing it could be, he announced, was arthritis. Arthritis! That couldn’t come on so quickly, I bleated. Yes, it could, he said mildly, so he sent me for x-rays, and over a week later I’m still waiting for the results. I’d moan about that except that I know, with our wonderful health system in Ireland, there are people waiting for far longer for far more important things than x-rays of their feet for a tiny fracture or arthritis.
Today, though, I went to the chiropodist, who said she believes it may be Plantar Fasciitis, which apparently is the thick connective tissue which supports the arch of the foot. She said, like the doctor, that it was probably brought on by the sudden transition from a particularly sedentary lifestyle to a very active one. I looked up Plantar Fasciitis on the web, and the funny thing is it seems to be a condition (mostly affecting runners) that causes pain in the heel. I have no pain in my heels at all. It’s going forward onto the ball of my foot that’s causing me problems: the pain then moves forward from my instep and splays out into my toes. So I can walk about my home or the office or the classroom without any great problem. It’s only when I have to propel myself forward that the pain kicks in, causing me to plant my foot in such a way that it’s causing my back problems, too. …The joys of aging…
But the chiropodist gave me a very simple treatment for it. (I love professionals who give simple practical advice – I always trust people who don’t feel they have to dress up their knowledge in esoteric rituals to impress). She told me to get a can of cooked beans or anything else that takes my fancy, put it in the fridge to cool it – and then roll it under my foot so that the coolness of the tin eases the inflammation while the rolling movement massages the plantar fascia!
I can even eat the baked beans afterwards…
The chiropodist also said, though, that the problem was being worsened by very dry skin on my feet. Again I waited to be prescribed some fancy cream. Instead, she advised me to put Vaseline on my feet – “the way you’d ice a cake” (she’s obviously never seen my baking) – and then to wrap my feet in clingwrap and cover the whole lot with old socks! I’ll do it, gladly, because the idea of having arthritis made me realise just how spoiled I am with good health all my life. Not being able to climb hills and dig gardens, or only being able to do it in pain, has me lying awake at night in horror at what I might lose.
Even now, over these last weeks of hobbling, I’ve been living off the memory of those few climbs up to the top of Bray Head in glorious evening sunshine, and re-arranging the garden with the aid of Jan’s strong back. And if I’ve to roll every tin of beans in every supermarket in Ireland, and sleep every night with cling-wrapped feet for the rest of my life (despite the danger of the washing machine, which is also giving trouble, breaking down and bursting into flames and having to emerge into the arms of the fire brigade in clingwrapped, old socked feet), I’ll gladly do it to get back to that glorious life again.
…But this time I’ll do it more slowly and with a little more gentle preparation…