Waiting for Happy Feet

It’s never a good sign when you find yourself trying to decide which part of your body hurts the most.  Without providing litany of complaints, suffice to say that a broken foot results in pain everywhere else, too.  I now understand all too well my mother’s gratitude at having her feet massaged when she arrived at hospice care – no morphine drip provides the same kind of joyous relief and that which emanates from properly rubbed feet.  Turns out that when your feet are happy the rest is sure to follow, and thus the opposite is also true.  Chronic pain emanating from the bottom up can make you an emotional wreck.

So when you rearrange the furniture in your daughter’s room, you cry.  When the Mother’s Day vase topples and breaks, you cry.  When you take that school picture sticker from second grade off the ugly bathroom mirror before they throw it in the dumpster, you cry.  When you find you are missing a family dinner far away, you cry.  When you move the preschool books to the attic, you cry.  And when you drive away from the special education collaborative where you have dropped your boy off for a vocational assessment you cry so hard you can’t breathe.

I don’t have much wisdom to glean from any of this other than I’d better work on healing my feet before they break my heart.