After 45 years of pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes, my mother’s feet began to rebel. Gone were the days of wearing what she wanted, for as long as she wanted. Instead, comfort – above all else – became king.
I’ll never forget arriving home from college on a break to find what could only be described as clodhoppers resting by the front door.
“I know I’ll look like a nun,” she said, nodding toward them, “But they’re practical.”
For the next several years the “nun shoes” became part of a rotation – a hodgepodge of various pairs she’d alternate based on how long she’d have to be on her feet.
The nun shoe era lasted about five years and in that time I moved home and became privy to my mom’s morning ritual of shoe selection; for the first time I was able to see her discomfort (but also her determination to keep moving) upfront. Every morning she’d get hold of two Advil, place them in a tissue, and stuff them in her pocket “just in case”.
These were the days when hammertoes and bunions were her only enemies – a time when ache, not pain, was her top concern. But in the past ten years the rebellion has continued and become fiercer.
For her 75th birthday this past April, a pesky corn arrived and made its home beneath her right middle toe. It seemed harmless at first, until it grew just big enough to absorb the pressure of every step; no effort to remove it or pad it with the help of Dr. Scholl’s showed any promise.
This is when things got interesting.
Desperate for relief that not even a nun shoe could provide, my mother began seeing the podiatrist as often as Medicare would cover it (every 61 days to be exact). Each time comfort was restored, but only temporarily – a few weeks at most. Then the corn – and the pain – would return.
My mother knows many people her age and older who are experiencing similar bodily rebellions. Some, like her, are battling for the ability to “get up and go” as much as they’d like to. Others are fighting for their sight or their breath and sometimes, all of the above. “Aging,” as my 96-year-old great aunt likes to say, “isn’t for sissies.”
So what’s a 75-year-old to do when aging knocks?
I’ve learned that the answer depends greatly on the 75-year-old. For some, the corn or the cataract, or the water pill will be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. They’ll begin to stay home more. They’ll stop doing as much for themselves and soon – as is too often the case – they’ll become less able to do as much for themselves.
But not my mother. At least, not yet.
At the age of 75 she still works three days a week and chooses to brave the subways and buses at rush hour to get there and back. On her days “off” she travels out to Long Island to visit her aunt, cooks meals for a soup kitchen and/or participates in one of a number of social clubs to which she belongs. Of all the signs of my mom’s vitality, perhaps the greatest is her routine on Sunday nights: singing along with friends at a piano bar until well past my 11p.m. bedtime – occasionally at the microphone.
Knowing all of this about who she is and how she’s chosen to confront aging thus far, I felt confident that the corn didn’t stand a chance. But my mother wasn’t always so sure.
“I’ve tried everything,” she told me this past summer. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“I do,” I said. And so I convinced her to meet me one Sunday at an athletic store.
There in the basement, surrounded by a wall full of sneakers, my mother and I went on the offensive. After months of her feeling powerless against the pain of every step, she and I now shared a determination to finally get the upper hand. The mission was simple: one pair of sneakers that she could live in if necessary – a pair that would enable her to walk without pain.
Twelve pairs of women’s sneakers later…
We were beginning to lose hope when the salesman had an epiphany: “Let’s try a pair of men’s sneakers in the smallest size possible,” he said definitively. “They’re roomier and far wider than women’s.”
Moments later he emerged from the back room and began to help her as she half-heartedly laced up the thirteenth pair. Then she stood to try them out…
“Oh, these are g-o-o-d!” she said, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. “I can’t feel the corn at all!”
“Are you sure?” I asked, enjoying the look on her face that now reflected pure elation instead of just mere happiness.
“Yes!” she replied, as she let out a huge sigh.
“We’ll take them,” I said to the salesman who was also smiling ear to ear. And in that moment I felt every bit as victorious and relieved as she did.
