My eyelids opened softly. My pupils carefully adjusted to the natural light that the window let in above my bed.

I lifted my head from the plush pillow beneath me and immediately noticed the once-faded humming of a cooling machine positioned on the floor beside my bed. My focus shifted to its plastic, fluid-filled tubes interweaving the solid plastic base. My eyes followed a particular tube that traced its way up to my bedding and connected to a cushion that encased my elevated left foot. The intervals of the icy fluid flowing into the cushion caused it to swell and tightly wrap itself around my foot as if to embrace it, and then would return to its lifeless state. I bent down to the large solid base of the buzzing machine and flipped the switch. At that moment, the constant rush of fluid traveling throughout the intertwining veins, the monotonous murmur, and the pulsating cushion at the base of my lower extremity ceased to exist; it now remained indefinitely in its once-temporary, lifeless state.

This machine cohabited my room for over a month and reminded me of my new reality.

Not bearing any weight on my left foot after my surgery forced every day to repeat itself. I would wake up and proceed to listen to the minutes tick by from the comfort of my mattress until the day yawned into dusk. Recovery is relatively simple, in theory; however, I navigated through one of the most complex periods of my life in complete and utter darkness.

I went into my ultimate procedure with mediocre expectations, not due to pessimism, but because I had endured three surgeries in the past year tackling this infirmity on my heel, the latest one taking place a little over two weeks prior. At the commencement of that year, my eyes were wide open, ready to take on that first procedure. My intuition told me that everything would proceed smoothly.

I remember going to a post-op appointment and discussing my foot’s status with the podiatrist.

“Maddy, you’re embarrassing me as a podiatrist! It was embarrassing to have to perform this surgery on your foot twice, but now a third time?” The doctor teased me as he studied the incision at the center of my heel.

I sat in silent disbelief. He shared the results of another patient who went through a similar situation and noted
that their foot made a full recovery after the first procedure. I felt the glimmer of hope in my eyes slowly start to diminish. He concluded the appointment by introducing the research he had done for the next procedure. In hopes of finally eliminating this malady, he selected all of the varied techniques possible.

“Why me? What have I done?” I pondered, desperately seeking an answer. I could see the tunnel’s light slip further and further away. I wondered if I could even recognize faith’s soft brilliance after all of this trouble.

The third procedure went accordingly, and that light began to ease its way back into my peripheral, giving me strength.

Shortly thereafter, the fourth and final procedure took place. By then, the initial steps of recovery were routine for me. My mother unwrapped the tight bandage from my foot. Our jaws hit the floor. We could not take our eyes off it — the monstrosity. A nickel-sized crater exposing deep dermis tissue sat at the center of my pale heel; yellow fluid oozing from it. The area of sickly skin under the bandage wrinkled as if suffocated from the mysterious bodily fluid that seeped from the pit, while dried blood stained the surrounding sections brown and the other layers closer to the cavity blue and red. With my experience thus far, I knew how my heel should look right after an operation: a circle of cauterized tissue resting on the surface of my fresh, pink skin. But this result was unbeknownst to me.

My mother’s reaction did not help. She tried to mask her bewilderment, but alas, I knew instantly and, whether we wanted to admit it, something was wrong.

Thundering clouds of doubt billowed over my vision, thickening with each day I spent lying on my bed, and every appointment with different specialists providing their varying professional opinions of which steps to take to heal my foot. Still, no one could give me the answer I longed for: Why? The fog engulfed me. I wanted to wave a white flag and inform everyone that I would no longer deal with the stress of this atrocity, this plague. Although it seemed ideal, I knew that I could not resort to that option. Did I go through months of anguish just to give up restoring my decayed heel because the uncertainty disappointed me? How pathetic. Quitting never aligned with my morals. My conscience witnessed the hopelessness and reminded the rest of my being that even the mere possibility of a full recovery should suffice and propel me forward in this journey. I staggered on.

I was a sophomore in high school with only one month left of classes. I persevered because of finals, even though I could not walk. The reward of basking in the sweet freedom of summer motivated me. For the next month, I carried on as usual except with a foot encased by a bulky plastic boot, propped up on a bright blue metal scooter with a plush white cushion. Of course, as a self-conscious teenager, I sensed that this new vehicle subjected me to utter humiliation. However, I soon noticed its perks when I habitually left my classes five minutes early and rode on the elevator. While rolling around brought its benefits, the question of how long this lifestyle would last lingered.

Per the request of a reconstructive plastic surgeon, I got an MRI. An urgent skin graft was the following step in the stranger’s plan. These two steps were only a few days apart.

The day before the scheduled operation, my mother’s colleagues advised her and me to get one last opinion from this other surgeon. Emergency visits exhausted my frail sight of hope, yet I strung along.

We entered the waiting room of his office. The atmosphere was peculiar to the others — welcoming. Plaques, awards, and magazines recognizing his performance decorated the walls; their flashy, gaudy colors enticed me to read them. They all mentioned a similar headline, crediting his work since the ’90s.

A medical assistant brought us to an exam room and provided us with the usual introductory questionnaire. She left and about 10 minutes later the surgeon walked in and introduced himself. He surveyed the cratering wound on my sole, and we gave him the rundown of the chaos, with hand motions and excessive details. I watched his head nod with an intent ear, yet his expression ceased to change as the story went on. After the performance, he turned his attention to my scooter in the corner.

“You don’t need that thing,” he proclaimed.

What did he just say? Did I hear that correctly?

“I don’t need my scooter?” I clarified.

“No. You can throw that thing away,” he responded with a chuckle.

How could he be so nonchalant about this groundbreaking discovery? This vehicle guided me through the blur. But now, I discovered that I did not need it to do so? For how long?

“And, you shouldn’t get that skin graft tomorrow; you’ll completely mess up the feeling in your foot,” he interrupted my overflowing stream of thoughts. “You would basically have the foot of a diabetic.”

His quick analysis rejuvenated my sight, my optimism. I could not explain why, but my intuition pleaded for me to trust him. We canceled the operation as he recommended and followed his orders of maintenance for my botched foot. It consisted of meticulous cleaning, iodine staining, and patience. His instructions led to a surprisingly rapid recovery with the end product of a healed sole.

I always appreciate reflecting on this period of my life because it demonstrates moments that left me feeling lost and feeble, reasonably so, but I never allowed myself to cave into the pressures of those moments. When I peered at my  heel and saw the flat surface of scar tissue, relief and pride overcame me. Persevering not only regenerated my foot, but also my optimism’s luster.