Everyone with Swollen Legs Needs to See This ☝️
At my sister's funeral, I couldn't keep my shoes on. I slipped them off under the pew during the second hymn. My feet had swollen so much the black flats were cutting into the tops of them, a dull, throbbing ache that felt like my skin was too small for my body. I sat there in my stocking feet, hiding them in the shadows of the dark wood, while the pastor talked about Joanne. And all I could think was: She used to do this too. Joanne was 61. Heart attack. In her kitchen, on a Sunday, with the kettle still on. I'm 57. And I have her legs. ======== Everybody in our family has the legs. That's what our mother called them. "The Kowalski legs." Thick ankles by evening. Sock lines you could count like rings on a tree. Wedding rings that fit at breakfast and strangle you by supper. We joked about it for years. Joanne would put her feet up at Thanksgiving and say, "The Kowalski legs have clocked out." Everybody laughed. I laughed. What none of us talked about was the other stuff. Joanne got winded on the basement stairs carrying laundry. She said it was her weight. She got so tired by 3 in the afternoon she'd sit in her car on her lunch break with the seat tipped back, just staring at the dashboard, trying to find the energy to go back inside. She said it was the job. Her ankles started staying puffy even in the morning. She said it was the heat. She had an answer for everything. And she never once went in. Not because she didn't care. Because she was busy. Because she was the one who took care of everybody else. Because she figured if it was serious, it would hurt more. It didn't hurt more. It just stopped. ======== At the hospital, they asked me questions I couldn't answer. "How long has she been short of breath?" "Has she seen anyone about the swelling?" "Is she on any medication?" No. No. No. I drove home that night and pulled my socks off in the driveway with the dome light on. I sat there in the dark, the silence of the neighborhood pressing in on m
