She'd called to ask if I wanted to go to the farmers market with her on Saturday morning. Just a simple question.
"Mom, we could grab coffee after, make a morning of it."
I heard myself say, "Honey, I can't walk around a farmers market. My feet can't handle it. I'll just stay home."
There was this long pause on the phone.
"Mom… you love the farmers market. This isn't like you."
And she was right. This wasn't like me. But I didn't know what else to do. I'd been dealing with this for almost two years at this point, and I was just… defeated.
"Have you tried everything?" she asked. "Like, actually everything?"
"Yes," I said, frustrated. "Shoes, inserts, ice, stretches, medications. I've spent thousands of dollars. The doctor says if it doesn't improve, the next step is surgery, and I really don't want that."
"Okay," she said quietly. "But I'm going to send you something. Just… promise me you'll try it?"