Maria can be sweet, but Maria can be scary. Maria can be tough.

One of the big lessons in my maturing life is that it is best to surround myself with strong women and do what they tell me to do. That’s when problems get solved.

Every morning, Maria has set aside time to change and wrap the bandages on my foot, to get a special plastic foot so I could shower and keep the wound dry, to apply antibiotic creams, to tape the bandage so it would not slip around, to help me get my socks on, and to threaten my life if I didn’t rest the foot for much of the day, as instructed.

This is a laborious process and one that is essential to healing. I’m grateful for the work she did and is doing.

I injured my foot six months ago and have had 2-3 surgeries to stabilize and repair it. But, unfortunately, it has defied all efforts to heal.

I am a diabetic, but the foot injury has nothing to do with that; the circulation in my feet is strong and healthy. It was just in a bad place for healing.

So I was referred to a podiatric surgeon at Saratoga Hospital, and she took the wound quite seriously.

When people with diabetes have foot injuries or bleeding, doctors get nervous.

You never have to wait long to see a podiatric surgeon for an appointment. I was in her care, and she wasted no time assaulting the wound and giving me a rubber “boot” that keeps the wound from rubbing against any hard surfaces, even a regular shoe.

She had ordered special orthotics, but because of the pandemic, they have yet to arrive. The wound needs them to stay healthy.

Of course, I could have sat still for a week, like she asked me the first time, or for two weeks, as she asked me the second. But I can’t be still for that long.

I’m way too restless; it makes me crazy to lie around for a full day.

This time, I got a  stern talk from Dr. Cary and the nurses. They decided to scare me a bit and (they call it “focusing” with willful patients) explained that the wound could not heal if I didn’t keep it up and off the ground for almost two weeks.

If this went on for months, they said, even though the wound was not yet infected, it was quite possible the wound could get infected, and for a person with diabetes, that could lead to serious trouble, the kind I didn’t want.

Nurse Maura admitted that they were laying it on a bit, but they wanted me to pay attention.

They sent strict instructions home for Maria and me in a packet.

No more nonsense. Maria watched me like a hawk, and I realized I needed to listen to what I was being told. So I have learned to trust my doctors and their nurses and my wife; they have taken good care of me, told me the truth, kept me healthy.

I’ve had to bludgeon Maria into resting when she gets sick practically, so she took some pleasure in doing it to me.

This time, I decided to do everything I was told.

For the past week, I rarely went out of the house, except to drive Moise to the train station; Maria did many shopping. I couldn’t go to the gym, take walks, or do farm chores; I wrote, dozed, got the mail, blogged,  read books, took photos, and visited Moise and his family. I threw the ball for Zinnia, read more books, shopped, and cooked.

No Mansion or Bishop Maginn.

Every morning, I asked Maria to take a photo of the wound to check the progress. There was none for two or three days. There was some yesterday and a lot today.

The nurses, sensing my impatience, urged me to be patient.  And take it easy. So I was, and  I did.

I got a little huffy and said I wasn’t retired; I couldn’t just lie around for two weeks. She wasn’t impressed. Would  I rather lose the foot?

Today, when we took off the bandages and took a photo of the wound, it was just about 100 percent healed.  That felt great.

I see the doctor again on Monday, and I intend to show her afoot that she is healed (she’s scary also). Then, maybe I can receive the new orthotics, put away my special boot, return to walking and the gym and wear the shoes I have gotten to help my feet (I love the new clogs Maria suggested I get for walking around the farm and the house).

The lessons are symbols. I grew up with alarmists, but sometimes, what people tell me for my own good is the truth. For me, it’s also learning that sometimes it’s okay to trust authority.

To live a healthy and meaningful life, it is essential to trust people who are educated and trained to help people like me.

Doing what I’m gold isn’t a matter of being pushed around or manipulated; sometimes, it’s about doing what’s best for me.

I have always preferred women over men in my life, and I find that being frightened of a strong woman is not bad. It helps with listening.

A bit of scabbing, but the shrinking wound has pretty much closed up. It’s no longer angry, which makes me happy. This long journey is ending.

Maybe  I can get a pedicure again on Monday.