Saturday morning

Finally - a few birds landed on the new squirrel-proof Roller-feeder. David figured out how to increase the height of the pole it hangs from; that probably helped. And 30 inches of snow over the past couple weeks probably created the hunger. I think the problem may be the type of seed I used, based on something I read on line today. I might try changing the seed. Also we've had the delight of watching a couple more squirrels try to beat the "squirrel-proof" functionality. Foiled! (Of course, squirrels are creatures deserving of compassion, too. But they need to get their compassion somewhere other than my bird feeder!)

I've been thinking about how we develop our attitudes, well, really our neuroses, and specifically, our fears about doctors and medical care. Of course, disease and injury are scary, so if we associate doctors with disease and injury ...

[WARNING to the particularly squeamish - some of the following could be a little gross!]

At any rate, I am recalling an incident that happened when I was in my early teens, perhaps 14, maybe 15, that shows my attitude/neurosis/fear of doctors was already established. I was in New York, visiting my father, out on Long Island. Several weeks, maybe even a couple of months earlier, I had stepped on a piece of glass - not while in NY but in the backyard of my mother's house in Florida before coming to NY for my visit. I remember doing it. I thought I had gotten the glass out of my foot - from one heel specifically - and forgot about it. Now here I am weeks or even a couple of months later up in NY. My heel on one foot began hurting and I remembered having stepped on the glass those weeks/months earlier in Florida. I didn't mention it to anyone. The discomfort gradually got worse and became really painful if I put any weight on that foot. But still, I didn't tell anyone about it; I remember not wanting to go to a doctor or hospital but not exactly why not.

Finally one evening the whole family - my dad, stepmother, little brother and sister, older brother, and whoever else was there (the house always had visitors/guests) - was going out somewhere and I managed to convince them that I didn't feel up to going, not mentioning my foot. I think I probably claimed to be getting a cold, or having bad period cramps, or something. And they all left.

I went to my dad's bathroom and found a straight-edge razor blade. I got alcohol from my step-mom's bathroom. I washed the bottom of my foot with soap and water. Then I soaked the bottom of my foot in alcohol. Meanwhile I soaked the razor blade in alcohol as well. I then proceeded to slice off the skin and callous that over the weeks/months since stepping on the glas had grown over the injury. Eventually I remember there was just a final thin layer of new pinkish skin. And I sliced through that, too, and out spewed icky green-yellow pus and a tiny piece of glass! I washed out the place with water and then, gritting my teeth, soaked the foot in alcohol. That hurt! Then I bandaged it up, put on a sock, cleaned up the sink in the bathroom where I had done the deed, put back the alcohol and threw the used razor into the garbage. I curled up with a book and waited for my family to return.

They came home. "Feeling better?" someone asked. "Oh, yes," I said. Of course, I was worried about the wound becoming infected but thought since it had obviously already BEEN infected, what the hell. I kept it clean, changing the bandage often till new skin grew over it in just a few days. And never had a problem with it again. And never told anyone about it.

What kind of trauma or other experience had I had as a kid that would lead me at age 14 to "operate" on my own foot rather than tell my parents that I was in pain so they could seek medical help? I don't know; I don't recall. I remember being very afraid of getting shots from my childhood pediatrician. That's the only specific childhood "bad" memory related to medical care I have. Perhaps I suppressed something worse?

Anyway, the point is, that when I think of myself over the last year or so, when I was experiencing the symptoms that eventually did drive me to go to my gynecologist and ultimately led to the cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemo , radiation and more chemo - and I beat myself up for taking so long to get up the courage to go to the doctor, then I recall my 14 year old self, performing a kind of "surgery" on my own infected foot rather than seek help, and I know that whatever unconscious fears I have about doctors are deep-seated and won't be overcome overnight. I feel sad for the 14 year old girl who cut open her own foot and watched pus pour out, and then bathed the open wound in alcohol. Poor girl.

What complex beings each of us is! Who can stand in judgment of any other person, when even judging ourselves may break our heart?

Peace, peace, peace. Compassion for our memories, may they strengthen us for the future.