Well Spent

A short lyric essay about being young and in pain in San Francisco

Hi! I’m continuing a little experiment of mixing some lyrical writing into this newsletter.

Some background on this one: when I was 22, a joint in the front of my right foot began to ache with every step. It turned out that the joint had grown in gnarled instead of smooth, and a slew of various foot doctors threw up their hands and told my I would always have pain when I walked. This piece originated in that era, when I was in the first years of contending with chronic pain.

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We walked down the manicured boulevard in Golden Gate Park past the Conservatory of Flowers, white and frilly like a palace. You said: that’s not real life. The fog came in flat like a hand and pushed us off the sunny road into a grove of pines where we crouched at the big toe of a tree and dug in the wormy earth. We wandered lost in the bewitched fog for hours, kicking at the roots which were stubborn and tangled like our lives. On our way home you insisted we take a cab without saying why. My bad foot was burning by then, but I would have gladly walked home. I want to spend my steps with you.

*

We walked in your garden in the late morning transplanting the pachysandra. We didn’t talk and didn’t need to. I had on my thick orthopedic boots, like stumps among the delicate plants. The shoes made me feel ugly and ashamed, but not around you. After the doctors told me about the deformed joint in my foot, you cried too, privately, after we hung up the phone. You never told me you cried, but you didn’t need to. I want to spend my steps with you.

*

We walked up the steep trail next to the ocean, the bones in my foot grinding their jagged edges against thin cartilage. We stopped, looked across the vast water, the arms of the coast reaching around the earth’s curve until they disappeared. The ocean made chronic pain feel both enormous and trivial, which caused a burning, embarrassing wetness in both of my eyes. You said “I’ll walk as slow as you need,” and reached around me like the coast around the earth. I felt like I could continue up, and I want to spend my steps with you.

*

We met for pedicures because it was that kind of Sunday. Afterwards, our toes looked like cherries and my surgery scar seemed faded and not-so-bad. You walked while I sat on my bike and paddled with my good foot all the way up to Alamo Square Park. We took in the purple houses and chocolate skyscrapers, deeper and more beautiful than before, enhanced by two mighty fights against depression. From up there we could barely see the grey grounds of our shamefully concealed battles. We walked a victory lap on the lofty grass. I want to spend my steps with you.

*

You offered to go get the car and pick me up. I thought you were just being polite, so I said, “No.” It was night in the lively city, the crowds were whipping into a tornado under the black sky, streets glaring with the headlights of a fast approaching siege. You offered again to get the car, and this time looked straight at me with truth on your face. The headlights reflected in your eyes and I realized you wanted to spare me the walking. Maybe you noticed that my once-in-awhile limp had appeared that night. I’ll take that offer someday, but that night I still said, “No,” and I meant it, because I want to spend my steps with you.

*

One day I will be walking with you in a field and fall will be coming. The four o’clock light will be hitting the golden wheat, and red maple leaves will dangle around the edges of the field like rubies. The world will look precious, like it always does when I’m with you. I will take my final good step, and the bones in my foot will finally grind away the last flake of soft cartilage protecting the hard places from each other. The rough edges will face each other, naked. I’ll finish walking across the field if I can.

From then on, the bones will grind together hard like flint stones, and every step will crack and spark. Nerves will pinch and muscles will twist, and the pain will keep me at home while you go out. I’ll take up whittling and whittle a cane, and later you’ll help me pick out a wheelchair. From then on, I’ll stay on flat ground, sitting and lying down.

When that happens, I won’t wish that I had saved my steps. I will be sure that the number of steps I spent was small compared to what you gave me. I will know it was a bargain.

Then I’ll enjoy sitting with you, when you’re around.

✍️ To the comments!

Tell me…

• Have you ever experienced chronic pain? How did you/are you coping?

• Did you ever experience pain or injury that seemed too great and too lasting for your age? For me, experiencing chronic pain in my 20s felt very lonely.

• I’m still curious what you think of this sort of lyric essay! General thoughts welcome.