But then, someone started putting pebbles in my shoes - and I couldn't figure out how to remove them by myself. They whispered that the pebbles were my fault, that I mustn't speak of them, that no-one would believe me anyway.
At first, I thought it was normal that you'd race with pebbles in your shoes, that everyone had them in one form or another, and I tried to keep up with my peers. But after a while it became clear that I simply couldn't keep going. I needed more rests, and sometimes the pain made me cry.
I had been paying attention in school, and we had learnt about pebbles - I knew therefore that pebbles had one very specific shape and size, different from the ones in my shoes... maybe I didn't have pebbles, maybe I just had knobbly soles?
Some people noticed that I had lost pace, and tried to come up with helpful solutions: Maybe go to bed earlier, maybe a change in diet or perhaps work harder in school. I tried to tell them that I had pebbles in my shoes, but I learnt quickly that one does not talk of pebbles!
No! Pebbles only exist in the imagination of naughty children, pebbles are an excuse for a poor work ethic, and anyway, there is no such thing as "pebbles in your shoes putters" in this village, no, this is a respectable village where people are strong runners!
Was the issue perhaps that I just wasn't sporty enough? There's no shame in being a slow runner they said, no shame at all. But pebbles...who'd ever heard such nonsense!
Years later, signs of the strain on my feet started to show, and some people started to whisper that perhaps, there was a peb...no! It could not be! Still, the pebble removal agency showed up. Finally! I thought. They will be able to help me get my shoe off and..."We hear you have been falling behind in the race? That you are no good at running? How very disappointing indeed, we always thought you the troublesome sort."
Years later, a different pebble removal agency untied my laces... and there they were! All of them! More than I had even known myself. Some of them I had buried so deep into the shoe leather, I had forgotten they even existed.
The pebble removal agency was very good at their job of removing pebbles. Efficient. Professional. I will be forever grateful to them. But it was not their job to fix my shredded socks, to inspect my broken skin or to assess the infection in my foot. No-one pointed out that my posture and gait might have suffered from my unbalanced walk, that I might need physio, that my scars might need help with healing. The pebbles were out, and all was well. Ta-DAA!
Because I'd had pebbles in my shoes for so long, they felt that I shouldn't be involved in discussions on what would happen to me next, or where the pebbles would be taken, if anyone would be asked about their provenance. They decided that - now that the pebbles were gone - pebbles never really existed. No-one was asked why I had spent my Teenage years limping, no-one had to justify their actions, no-one had to be ashamed and silenced, no-one but me.
Least said, soonest mended, what the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't grief over, forgive and forget...what pebbles?
Even though the pebbles are gone, the wounds still remind me, want me to know and understand why they are there, and so they bleed into my dreams and drain my brain and pump my heart furiously at words or smells or sounds...
I did try to hit the ground running - but I had lost so much ground! I was so far behind, I had to file tax returns whilst doing stretches, because wouldn't that be funny, someone of my age running at toddler speed in toddler style...what are you, thick? Or just a slacking runner? I tried to compete and warm up and improve at the same time, and of course I failed.
Sometimes, if someone asked why I was running in the wrong category, I'd try and tell them about the pebbles. I thought, if they understood the festering wounds in my shoes, they might not judge me if I need to have another break, or if I slow down yet again, if I cried at the sight of gravel.
But there's a funny thing about the scars from pebbles: They are only a blemish on the one who carried them.
"Let's not talk of the past, you have a race to focus on."
"I know many people who've had pebbles, and they've all invented the cure for foot-and-mouth, so maybe focus on how you could be an asset?"
I stopped talking. It's just easier. Let people think you're just a lazy runner. Let them pat you on the head with washed out wisdom about managing your breathing and the benefits of warming up, and listen to them as they tell you that once, they kept running despite a twisted ankle. And I kept favouring the other leg, and sometimes I almost forgot why I walked with a limp.
But the infection in my foot, the raw, chafed, broken skin, they did not go away just because I didn't mention them. So 20 years later, when my legs would not carry me anymore, I called a podiatrist.
The podiatrist was very efficient. Professional. Her specialty is Athlete's Foot , and she knew my problem from the tone of my voice. "It must be Athlete's Foot, because people with AF have trouble with their feet! I will give you an ointment and refer you to a back massage." Why a back massage? "Because that is where we have free appointments" I suggested that I didn't think that I had AF, nor did I need a massage of any kind. I was told that I was refusing treatment, the most definite and worrying symptom of AF. I tried to explain about the pebbles and the broken skin and the limp and the infection and the strain on my bones... but she was very efficient indeed.
Luckily, someone noticed my funny walk. She took off my shoes, peeled the shredded socks away carefully, and squinted at the inflamed boils, the festering scars, the bruised toes. It hurt and stank and bled, and we cried, but she did not turn away. She did not look for a socially acceptable way of making this my fault.
She told me that it was OK to cry when people asked me why I never took part in skipping competitions - my feet were too damaged, this would simply never be an option for me. And that, she said, is an OK reason to sometimes feel sad when you have to watch from the sidelines. As long as you keep cheering them on, it's OK to feel the weight on your heart. Just don't let it stop you from cheering them on. Never let it stop you from cheering others on.
"Sometimes", she said, "sometimes we need to acknowledge that pebbles happened. Not to dwell on the pebbles, but to deal with the damaged they have done. Rugby players don't resent rugby if it breaks their nose, but they still have to get it straightened before they can fully rejoin the game. Sometimes it's OK to sit and recover for a while, as long as we don't drop out of the race. Maybe make the runners closest to you aware, that you might need occasional breaks, that you won't always to run at full speed, and that they might need to remind you to check on your bandages regularly...you will find, many others will understand all too well."
It was a scary thought. I had gotten used to wearing thick socks and tying my shoes tightly, so that I might not accidentally end up bleeding onto someone else's path. "The infection can only heal if exposed to fresh air and sunshine, hiding this stuff in the dark only protects the bacteria causing it. You will need people to lean on for stretches of this course...there's no other way you'll be able to keep running."
And so I tried. I looked around at my fellow runners, and tried to talk. First I'd only tell them that I had blisters, you know, to warm them up, to gage, to figure out how to explain that I carried a bloody mess in my trainers.
I knew it would be hard for them - what do you say? How do you react? What do you do? I wouldn't know either...
So I collected responses like pebbles in my pockets, and here's the selection. Perhaps, if anyone tells you about their scars, pick out the one that feels right:
"But why did you not ask for help? Why not just remove them? Why were you not wiser/stronger/faster/braver?"
"Surely your blisters only hurt because you haven't forgiven the shoe manufacturer. If you had truly forgiven, the blisters would not hurt you and they most definitely would not have become infected."
"I once had a friend who had AF, and the cream really helped.... I know you think you don't have AF, but foot problems are a clear sign of..."
"Maybe don' talk about your blisters? They hurt less if you don't mention them. Just keep walking quietly, stop making a fuss."
"And you are sure you didn't accidentally put these in your shoes yourself? It sounds very attention-seeking, is all I'm saying. Not judging, just observing."
"Maybe don't mention that again - it could upset others.."
"I hear you - blisters, stony things...now let me tell you about that time where I nearly tripped, it's kind of the same thing except my story actually matters."
"If you will speak of pebbles, I will have to stop you there. Pebbles are too close to home - maybe just right now, or maybe it's something that I'll never be able to hear. But I can kind of guess, so I'll fall in step with you so you don't have to walk alone."
"I don't know what to say - I've never seen an infection like this. Maybe I could just sit with you when you need to rest your foot?"
"This is sooooo..... Fucking Shit! (Don't look at me - I'm quoting!) And it's not your fault. I don't know how to make it better for you. But I still love you, smelly feet and all"
"Do you want to talk about it? Do you want me to ask about it?"
"Just popped round because I know for you to run to mine may be hard right now. Here's some cake."
"I'm no Doctor, but looking at your wounds and hearing you describe your pain, it looks like there's a bit of a journey ahead. I'll keep checking in - but you need to tell me when you want to talk."
"Want to look at kittens?"
Honesty, is what I found, tends to give the best answers; that when we are honest and don't pretend to know the answer or how this is best fixed or even pretend that we can fathom the unimaginable, when we recognise that the best we can do is just to sit with someone whilst they rest their feet, perhaps that is when we are most truly carrying.
I'm not talking because I want anyone to fix this - I've built a new path from the rabble. I'm just trying to explain my funny walk, and hope that people will so be able to understand my stumbles and limps and coming up last.
I know I'm not the only one, but I am one with a voice, one that now has ointments. I have got some amazing runners around me, but not everyone does. And not everyone believes that pebbles still happen. So I will talk about them - not because it's fun. But because someone somewhere might see a little runner, trying to keep up, but falling behind - and might understand that they don't need to be told how to run faster. They need to be asked about what's holding them back. Don't tell them pebbles can't possibly be happening. Support them on their way to the removal agency, and make sure someone takes those shoes off and looks properly. And don't let them out of sight until they've seen a podiatrist.
Plus - if anyone can - I'm of course always grateful for an extended hand on the stony parts of the path, we can all help each other overcome our boulders.
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| Thank you Liz Hall for letting me use your beautiful painting - and for the extended hand. |
