Over the weekend, Pete and I worked on reconfiguring our bedroom T.V. stand so it would be more functional and organized. I needed to retrieve one of my big, lined baskets from the basement to hold the old VHS tapes we weren’t ready to part with. Our basement is unfinished, meaning it’s a dimly lit space comprised of cinder blocks and spider webs. This also means it has become the dumping ground for stuff we aren’t using right now, but will probably need in the future. Like big, lined storage baskets.
I slid my sock-clad feet into the old pair of Crocs I keep at the top of the basement stairs and headed down to dig through the disorganized mess that is our cellar. Just as Pete called “Be careful” behind me I felt a sharp pinch on the bottom of my foot. I ignored it and dug out the basket and returned upstairs, feeling a pinch every few steps. So I sat down on the bed, pulled off my sock and investigated. I could feel a thin splinter sticking out of my heel, so I did what I always do in this situation. I called Pete to come remove it for me. (Disclosure: I walk around in socks, or even bare feet, all the time. So splinters in my feet happen every few months. Not at all diabetes-recommended, but I'm being honest.)
Since whatever was in my foot was still mostly sticking out, it only took Pete a second or two to pull it out with tweezers. Once he was done, he remarked “That was really thin! I’m surprised you even felt it.”. And to me, that’s a pain that hurts so good. I may not know what was in my foot. Maybe it was a stinger from a bug (but let’s say no because I hate to think my foot was in a shoe with an icky bug in it) or maybe it was a tiny splinter of wood. In the end, whatever it was, it put my mind at ease. Because after about 35 years with diabetes I can still feel the tiniest jab in my foot.