Athlete's Foot

I was my parents' first child. When I was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my left ankle, causing my foot to bend upward in a rather unusable way. This was, of course, arguably better than having the cord wrapped around my neck, rendering my head unusable. Nonetheless, it turned out to be quite an ordeal.

An act of fate that was both cruel and kind, all at once.

The doctors operated when I was nine hours old, lengthening my achilles tendon in order to coax my foot into a more upright position. Then, I was put immediately into a cast, which was changed every several weeks as I grew rapidly from an infant into a toddler.

There was more surgery in my future. At the age of three years, I went back in to the doctors, who operated again, this time straightening my toes and putting a pin in my foot for several months. More casts.

My childhood was plagued by a series of casts, leg braces, and special shoes. The casts meant I had to be wrapped in a garbage bag before I could play in my kiddy pool. The leg brace had to be worn at night, and made it difficult to sleep. And the special shoes made me very unpopular in childhood social circles.

I have a specific memory, one of my earliest, in which I was sitting on a bench next to my mother, dangling my feet. I looked at my left ankle, which had been recently operated upon. It was still purplish. I asked her if the scar would always be there. She answered that yes, it would be, but that it wouldn't always be that color. I remember being fascinated and saddened by this information.

During my elementary school and junior high days, I spent my time trying to cover up the fact that I had scars on my ankle. I could walk fine, dance fine; my foot was basically normal, by that point. No one would know if I didn't show them my tell-tale marks. For this reason, I spent many humid Minnesota days in long pants and bulky shoes.

Because of, what seemed to me, my clear deficit in the physical realm, I never strove to be particularly athletic. I was always the kid who got picked last for teams. Not because anyone knew of the handicap that glared so blindingly in my mind, but because I wasn't very coordinated, mostly from lack of exposure and practice. My own father, the coach of my little league t-ball team, put me in left field.

This trend continued throughout college and into the Peace Corps. When I moved to California, something changed. A friend dragged me to the rock climbing gym with her. And I do mean dragged. I was very clear about the fact that I was not physically adept enough to do something as active and adventurous as rock climbing. And then, surprisingly, I really enjoyed myself. Several months later, I went back, joined the climbing gym, and worked on improving my skills. As it turns out, I'm actually pretty good at climbing.

As is apt to happen when a person uses her shoulders to push and haul herself up the face of a very steep wall, I created some new physical problems for myself. I already see a chiropractor for my foot, my sometimes out-of-whack hip, and my often jammed lower back. (Many of these issues were created by me in my dancing and/or my climbing escapades.) Several weeks ago, I went in to have him look at my recently injured shoulder. I expressed my dismay over the fact that I had chalked up yet another injury to my joints. It seems I get them more often these days. I hypothesized, out loud, that I was just getting old.

Then, my chiropractor said something that I'll never forget. He stated offhandedly, "Well, you're an athlete; it's not a matter of if you'll get hurt, but when." I didn't hear the rest of his instructions because I was stuck on the first part.

"You're an athlete."

I cried a few little, happy tears on my way home from his office.
I never knew.

My Athlete's Foot