Learning the Hard Way
I’m a pretty smart person. And not just book smart. I’ve learned a fair amount in my life. I have (un)common sense and know a lot about different social classes, how to blend in and get by. But I am also blessed with a stubbornness for the ages. I can dig in my heels and shall not be moved until I decide it’s time to move. It is this latter trait that means I have had to learn some lessons “the hard way.”
What I mean by “the hard way” is through personal experience rather than by seeing or learning about someone else’s experience and making better choices to avoid what happened to them.
As children, we almost all learn the hard way. Someone tells us not to touch a stove because it’s hot, and the majority of us have to touch the stove to understand what “hot” means. As we get older, when we see someone yank their hand back and stick their finger in their mouth, we know we shouldn’t touch whatever it was because it’s hot. This time, we have learned vicariously through their experience.
As adults, we seek out advice from experts because they have seen how things turn out time and again. We are hoping to learn from their experiences and avoid problematic outcomes. In the scientific community, they can provide research and data to prove they know that they’re talking about. So, when it comes to science and healthcare, I am generally a “follow the rules” and “play the odds” kind of person.
Granted, this doesn’t always work out in my favor. We fell into the 1% of people to have a kid with CHD, and then that even rarer group of people who had multiple kids with CHD. But we’ve beaten the odds in many positive ways, too. Many marriages fall apart after infertility, ART, medically-complicated children, or infant death, and mine has survived all of those things. But, on the whole, when my doctors tell me I need to do something, I do my best to follow their instructions.
And et. We all know that person who ignored their doctor, followed their gut, and was right. George Burns smoked cigars his whole life and lived to 100. My grandmother knew something was wrong and badgered her doctors until they did an angioplasty and discovered her arteries were too clogged to do one, so she had quadruple bypass surgery without ever suffering a heart attack, and she went on to live to 95. And we all know that skinny person that never exercises and eats nothing but candy bars, but has no fat, no diabetes, and flawless skin.
So when my doctor told me I was diabetic, I wasn’t surprised. Annoyed, to be sure, but not surprised. I diligently began taking my meds, releasing weight, and eating marginally better. We got my a1c in line, I began taking certain meds prophylactically, and life was good.
Now, from day 1, they told me I needed to start taking care of my feet. Putting lotion on them, wearing “real” shoes, checking them each night for cracks and whatnot, and recommended that I geta podiatrist. Not. I have been a barefoot child my whole life. My mantra is “naked feet are happy feet.” I have had tough calloused feet for as long as I can remember. I could walk or run on gravel. Hot summer cement didn’t bother me. I took pride when I lost two toenails after a half marathon. I mentally gave my doctors the middle finger and ignored everything they said about my feet. My endocrinologist would test the nerves on the bottom of my feet. There was no reason to add yet another doctor and another co-pay to my already hemorrhaging healthcare budget.
A few days ago, I noticed my right heel was tender when Ziggy licked it. But it was a mind annoyance. I thought maybe his teeth were scratching me a bit as he slathered my heel, and it was no biggie, so I ignored it. Yesterday, I noticed my toenails needed clipping, so I decided I would put lotion on my super dry and scraggly feet. That’s when I found it. A fissure. Fuck. Okay, no biggy. I cleaned it with alcohol (ouch!) and otherwise slathered my feet with lotion. When I checked my feet later, it was lke I had never put lotion on them.
Readers, I sed ultra-moisturizing lotion four times over 8 hours, put socks on overnight, and still barely made progress on the dryness of my heels. I am fighting to prevent additional fissures that I can literally see trying to occur. I am chastened. My doctors knew. They were right. It didn’t matter how my feet had always been. It didn’t matter that my A1c had been great for over a year. I should have been caring for my feet and, instead, I had been abusing them to spite the doctors. And the only person it hurt was me. Once again, my stubbornness got the better of me, and I learned the hard way that my doctors really did know what they were doing. If I am paying for their expertise, shouldn’t I follow it? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I know. And at least I caught it early before I did any real damage. But it was a wake-up call and a good reminder that I don’t always know what’s best for me, and I need to be doing a better job of caring for my body. I may have learned the hard way, but at least I learned. This time.
