This is a memory from 2019 when my heels were at their worst. Well, really all of the time my heels were split open was the worst. So, I guess this is more or less a glimpse into one of the scenarios with my heels and the first time I went to the wound clinic.

I join the queue in front of the elevators. The mix of patients and doctors are either scrolling through their phones, stifling yawns, or sipping on coffee. It is early. I don’t want to be here but unfortunately one month after my wedding my heels split open and after numerous trips to Urgent Care – enough that I am relatively certain my next visit is free – I am now on my way to the Comprehensive Wound Clinic. I shift my weight from foot to foot trying to alleviate the full blown, dull ache in my heels. I see strangers glancing at me in my peripheral vision. I want to glare back and yell at them to mind their own damn business but I am painfully shy and am drowning in a lack of self-confidence. So I wait and shift from side to side until the elevator doors open and I hobble in on the balls of my feet with the crowd. 

I am closest to the elevator panel and rapidly press buttons as my fellow elevator passengers yell at me, almost forgetting to hit floor 9 for myself. I start to sweat and feel dizzy from the heat in the overcrowded elevator. At each ding, passengers shuffle out, knocking into my tote, throwing me off balance. I bounce off the elevator wall and back to a standing position, trying to keep balance on the balls of my feet with wounded, gauze wrapped heels. Finally floor 9 opens up and I nearly fall out of the elevator in relief. I take a deep breath in and am hit with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and body odor. The waiting room looks like there have been no attempts to bring it into the 21st century. It is covered in metal chairs with plastic maroon and sage green cushions surrounded by bile-beige colored walls all illuminated under dim, flickering fluorescent lights. Everything feels like there is a thin film of grime on it which is the opposite of what you want in a wound clinic. 

I walk up to the window and slide my registration stickers to the woman behind the glass. She takes the stickers, nods, and instructs me to find a seat. I drop into the first open seat and lean my tote against the metal leg of the chair. I grab my laptop and try to focus on getting some work done but can’t. Each conversation in the room bounces off walls and distracts me. There is a man rolling back and forth in a wheelchair grumbling loudly to anyone who will listen and a woman and maybe her father who are having a spirited discussion about why he needs to keep his bandages clean. 

I hear my name and shove my work back into my bag. I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I shuffle past them in my leopard print slides and bandaged feet. The nurse is zipping down the corridor. I struggle to keep up and am winded by the time we reach the room. 

My anxiety begins to surge. I sit on the blue plastic covered hospital gurney and the nurse starts to unravel the gauze covering my wounds. My stomach knots and I ask her kindly if I may unwrap them. She says it is no problem, they are used to unwrapping bandages to which I respond, I will unintentionally kick you in the face if you don’t let me unwrap my own bandages. She yields and I carefully unwrap my fragile heels to reveal wounds covering the entire back: at least two inches wide and an inch or more top to bottom of raw wound roughly a few centimeters deep. It’s gnarly. It starts to dry out in the open air of the hospital room and I start to humm in pain and rock back and forth holding onto my ankles, knuckles white, thinking if I squeeze my ankles hard enough maybe my feet will fall off and the pain will go away. She looks at my heels then back to me and says oh honey they look terrible. In my head I say well yeah no shit why do you think I’m here but in the real world I respond with nervous laughter and ask if she can cut off my feet. 

She leaves to go fetch the doctor after measuring and taking pictures of my wounds. I sit by myself looking around the room. I grab my phone, unlock it, relock it, and set it back down next to me. I drum my fingers against the plastic blue cover. My heels are throbbing and my stomach is in knots from the pain. My nervous system is on high-alert and my breathing gets more strained as the pain grows. I fight back tears and elevate my heels to reduce the pain, gritting my teeth in a beginners yoga boat pose just as the nurse and doctor walk in the door.