When the tendon in my arch popped, I remembered that I was fifty-one. I had been getting younger all week. I had been pulling off spinning kicks, flying kicks. Spinning-flying kicks. I had worked my way back to my twenties. I was hot and ready for the ring. But. Now, I flopped, hopping on one foot with my jump rope tangled ingloriously about my ankles as I withheld a stream of foul English unbecoming the do-jo. It would have sounded cool if I could have invoked ancient demons in classical Japanese. But I can’t even count past the number ten in Japanese.

“You okay?” my instructor asked.

“Yeah. It’s just a pinched nerve,” I said. “I’ll walk it off.” And, in truth, the pain did subside as I limped toward the wall for support. As I gathered my jump rope and took up the beat again, the truth came shooting back through the left arch. Okay. Maybe you’re fifty-one, I thought. But that’s just a pinched nerve. I told myself this for the next forty minutes through six rounds of sparring practice. It didn’t really hurt all that much. Later, limping toward the pickup, I remembered that adrenalin masks pain.

You WERE fifty-one, dumbass, I heard a familiar voice in my head. Now you’re somewhere around eighty.” I ignored the voice. It was not kind. Deserved no consideration.

It hurt less when I walked normally. Limping made it worse. I knew it was going to be fine. When I hobbled into the house, Tessa said, “What did you do?”
“Nothing. It’s just a pinched nerve.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Just in front of the heel. Kind of in the arch. It’s just a nerve. There’s nothing there but skin and bones.”
“And the plantar fascia,” said Uncle Dan. Uncle Dan is a retired M.D.
“The?”
“The thing that makes your toes curl,” Tessa added helpfully. “You have plantar fasciitis.”
The term landed like hail stones on a brand-new pickup cab. My closest friends were living with it. Fighting it with varying degrees of success.
“Doesn’t sound serious,” I said. “It’ll go away. Do we have any ibuprofen?”
“It won’t help,” said Dan.
I turned on him. “You said it’s plantar fasciitis. That’s inflammation, isn’t it? I need an anti-inflammatory.”
“Yes. That’s what it’s called. But it’s not really an ‘-itis’. It isn’t inflamed at all. It’s strained. An anti-inflammatory won’t reduce the pain. It won’t even promote healing.”
“What will help?”
“Rest.”
“I can do that.”
“Ppppppttt.” It was Tessa.
“What?” I demanded.
“You rest like spit on a hot skillet.”
“Okay. Fine,” I said. “I’ll get Jim and Jack to help out.”
“Jim and Jack?” Dan asked, puzzled.
Tessa explained, “Jim Beam. Jack Daniels.”
“There are alternatives,” said Dan.
“Yeah, but Johnny Walker puts him in jail.” Tessa again.
“I was thinking of pharmaceuticals,” said Dan.
“He won’t even take my oxycodone,” she said. “And I can get all I want.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I got this.”
Long story short, it took about three months to heal. Dan gave me an issue of a medical journal with the latest research on plantar fasciitis. The only thing that helped the patients in that study was a splint that keeps your foot flexed all night so that the tendon stays stretched. Tessa ordered me that splint from Amazon.com, and it helped quite a bit.

The recovery would have probably taken less time, but, as Tessa said, I don’t rest well. I never touch alcohol any more. Jim Beam and Jack Daniels never relaxed me when I drank anyway. The only cure for plantar fasciitis is rest and stretching the tendon. And, of course, plain old horse sense: If it hurts, stop.