Is It Your Right Foot Again? Essay
Iris Wilde straightened her leg and rolled the ankle. Her narrow beige shoes were fashionable thirty years earlier, and they were good quality. She had believed in buying the best back then, and time had proved her right. Her cream leather handbag rested on the other patient chair. Old-fashioned galoshes rested on the floor underneath, and a long black wool coat with a mink collar was draped carefully on top. If Dr. Hahn hadn’t directed her to provide the woman with several free samples, Lisa would have assumed she was in comfortable circumstances.
“Yes, and it’s worse than it was before. I’m afraid it might be infected.”
“Oh, ouch. There’s nothing worse than an infected toe.” Lisa fell into her breathing pattern. Even here in podiatry, Lee haunted her. Both of his feet had been amputated in a futile attempt to stem the infection and save his life. And Pete, too. It would be hard for him to keep his foot clean. “Please have a seat over there. Do you need help with the shoe?”
“Oh, no. I can do that, if you can give me a hand up.” She continued talking as the two of them made the complicated transfer with the assistance of a quad cane. “This always reminds me of the dentist’s chair, but coming here is so much nicer. You don’t have the noise of the drill.”
Lisa smiled at the familiar comment. “Not quite like getting a pedicure, though. We don’t paint your toenails after cutting them.”
“I’ve never had a pedicure in my life. Jim would divorce me…