Feet first

VOC aches and pains

Musings
Sonia Kelly

Have you ever felt that you were going into a terminal decline? I felt that way myself lately and it seems to have stemmed from my feet – or at least from one foot, which was suffering from an unpleasant soreness on the sole.
It was impossible to locate exactly, because how do you examine the bottom of your foot? Even if you are some kind of fakir it would not be easy, but for VOCs (very old cripples) it is out of the question. I limped on, visualising gangrene and wondering who to consult.
The trouble was – is – that feet are so intrinsically ugly that one hesitates to expose them for scrutiny. However, I eventually overcame this reluctance and consulted a friend, who immediately diagnosed a ‘callus’ and prescribed a chemical plaster. Needless to say, this led to the problem of applying said plaster, which, unless aimed accurately, apparently dissolves the rest of the foot. My God…
It must have been at this point that my system shuddered and changed down into third gear, allowing various other afflictions to surface and hastening the general decline. A large bruise appeared mysteriously on the opposite shin. I had no recollection of colliding with anything since past encounters with supermarket trolleys had produced similar contusions. These had cleared up after I had dedicated a special ‘trolley euro’ for the purpose of releasing a less-lethal conveyance. Now something else was targeting my limbs.
More unease was to manifest in bed in the form of shoulder pangs, necessitating a rigid flat position. These were the result of an embarrassing fall at a Christmas party, when I failed to see a step and slithered ungracefully into a corner, landing on the shoulder. At the time, it didn’t hurt, but later it became extremely sore, so that I could barely dress, or undress. It had, however, almost recovered, until this period of decline.
I do know that shoulders seem to harbour injuries indefinitely, as two years previously, on a trip to Italy, I had wrenched the other one while dragging my luggage over a curb. The lasting result of that mishap is a continual inability to wash the back of my neck. Sympathetic twinges now re-emerged to exacerbate the doleful situation.
Then, the last straw. While struggling to open a bottle with a knife, the weapon slipped and sliced into my thumb. It looked as though I was going to bleed to death, so, holding a bucket underneath the wound, I phoned for help. My son rushed in with first-aid equipment and stuck the slice together while I still had some blood left inside. I explained what happened. “Can you open it?” I asked, showing him the bottle. He picked it up, gave it a flick and the top came off.
How did he know what to do? It had defeated me for ages. There were no discernable clues, and even my treasured green rubber square had failed to twist the top off. So, as well as being almost mortally wounded, it looked as though I was mentally deficient too. Was it any wonder that a serious decline seemed inevitable?
Altogether pretty depressing.
So better start thinking positive …
Someone once gave me a list of things to be thankful for (perhaps after the Italian trip?), so I looked it up. I saw that, if I have spare change in a dish, I am in the top 8 per cent of the world’s wealthy. I have, but I don’t feel especially rich, or happy, because of it.
If I’ve never been in battle, imprisoned, or tortured, I should also be happy – but this is too farfetched to make an impression. If I can hold someone’s hand, I am blessed – but this possibility is equally remote.
Nothing for it, but to motor on in third gear and hope to pick up speed soon...