Painful Stories

Last Sunday I was staying at my brother’s place in Los Angeles. I had a plane to catch back to Seattle that morning, and was gathering my stuff for the trip home when my bare foot kicked the hard, wooden leg of his king-sized bed. This happens to me from time to time at home; it’s annoying, it stings, but it passes. This time, it did not pass so quickly. My brother was in the middle of telling me an interesting story when I kicked the bed, and I had to ask him to wait ten minutes or so before he could resume.

I started icing my toes, but I had that plane to catch, so I slipped on my shoes and socks and headed for the airport. Three hours later I was limping through SeaTac airport. Strange, I thought, that it still hurt. I must have really whacked it. I limped around the house that evening, eating dinner and watching football until it was time for bed.

I was dreading this just a little. I hadn’t looked at my toes since I stopped icing it at my brother’s place. Sitting on my bed, I slipped off the shoe and then the sock. A sound came out of my mouth I have never made before in my fifty-four years. My left ring toe, the second smallest, the piggy who had no roast beef, was not black and blue – it was just black. If I had not known what I’d done, I would have thought it was ready to fall off.

Fortunately, I could bend the toe, which meant it wasn’t broken. It also didn’t hurt that much. It stung a little. But good god it was hideous. It was the wrong color, a sick color, a zombie color. I couldn’t look at it the next morning, but I limped worse than I had the day before. It didn’t feel worse, it might have even been feeling a little better, but I couldn’t tell. Walking reminded me of what I had seen, and whenever it appeared again in my writer’s imagination, I had to stop and lean against a doorway or mantle and take a deep breath and gather myself. I’d have made a lousy doctor.

The toe has recovered both its natural color and its full walkability. Whenever I think of it now, I’m reminded how most of my pain is just a story I’m telling myself. I do love stories, but I have to tell the ones I actually want to hear. A bruise, after all, need only be a temporary reminder of a moment of inattention, not a flower of doom, the first sickly signal of the end of wellness.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence.
You can find William at: williamkenower.com