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Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
Charlie Chaplin
Sitting in a bar listening to a fast set of bluegrass, I instinctively tap my fingers and toes. That's the first time I notice that my left foot doesn't cooperate. I think "tap" but it doesn't respond. A day or so later, after several unexpected near trips and almost falls, I realize I'm dragging it slightly when I walk - not hugely noticeable but enough to feel awkward - it's nothing I can put my finger on, but my gait feels off and out of sync. Pinched nerve, I decide, maybe drop foot. There's no tingling, no numbness, no pain but I can't bend my toes upward. When the word stroke comes creeping around the edges of my mind, I give it a violent shove and send its sorry ass flying. I may have my old, creaky and broke down days, but I'm not going there. Uh-huh, not none of me, I tell myself as if I could will it away.
When, after a decent interval, it gets no better and only marginally worse, I give in and decide to see the doctor. I opt for the podiatrist, partially because it's an optimistic decision, partly because all my instincts tell me that it's where my regular doctor would end up sending me anyway - at least that's what I hope/pray/believe - partly because I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the dreaded "S" word. A few days later I'm cooling my heels in an opulent, uptown office with all the trimmings , a wretched excess of the fanciest, newest medical equipment and computer gadgets, and a staff of thirteen. The doctor, heavier than I remember and now silver haired, is thriving - still married to the same woman and doing well enough to have taken on a partner and bought his own building - he remembers me from my days at the photo store which we both agree seems like a lifetime ago.
He examines my recalcitrant foot, puts pressure here and there, has me push against his hand from a dozen different directions and diagnoses a compromised peroneal nerve. He advises a nerve conductivity toxicity test to pinpoint the source and asks how I'd feel about a brace.
You'd walk without having to remember to lift your foot and you wouldn't trip, he says and that's good enough for me.
No stroke? I ask.
No stroke, he tells me firmly.
Optimism will out. I knew it all the time.
When, after a decent interval, it gets no better and only marginally worse, I give in and decide to see the doctor. I opt for the podiatrist, partially because it's an optimistic decision, partly because all my instincts tell me that it's where my regular doctor would end up sending me anyway - at least that's what I hope/pray/believe - partly because I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the dreaded "S" word. A few days later I'm cooling my heels in an opulent, uptown office with all the trimmings , a wretched excess of the fanciest, newest medical equipment and computer gadgets, and a staff of thirteen. The doctor, heavier than I remember and now silver haired, is thriving - still married to the same woman and doing well enough to have taken on a partner and bought his own building - he remembers me from my days at the photo store which we both agree seems like a lifetime ago.
He examines my recalcitrant foot, puts pressure here and there, has me push against his hand from a dozen different directions and diagnoses a compromised peroneal nerve. He advises a nerve conductivity toxicity test to pinpoint the source and asks how I'd feel about a brace.
You'd walk without having to remember to lift your foot and you wouldn't trip, he says and that's good enough for me.
No stroke? I ask.
No stroke, he tells me firmly.
Optimism will out. I knew it all the time.
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