THE SUICIDE DISEASE by Mary Jones
You think about which wrong turn you took. You remember how when you were in high school, someone told you that life comes down to five decisions. You try to figure out which decision was the bad one. From where it all spiraled out of control. You think the decisions that will matter most will be the big ones: which college you go to, who you marry, where you live, and so on. But, it turns out, it’s a decision you made on the fly that has the biggest impact. Not one of the decisions you agonized over, tortured yourself over, lost sleep over. What defines you is a pair of sneakers you bought. Picking a pair of sneakers.
You remember the man who sold them to you. You remember the store, in Boston, in the good part of town. He seems so smart. It’s a runner’s store. You are not a runner. But you are a woman now. Mature. You will not be vain. You will not pick your sneakers based on what they look like, will not buy a pair at the mall the way you always have. The man is muscular and has stubble on his face. His hair is going gray. He tells you to hike your pants up to your knees, and then he watches you walk back and forth while he studies your gait. Other customers sit on the cushioned bench, waiting for their turn. They watch you and they watch the man. The man puts his hand on his mouth and taps a finger to his cheekbone. He is concentrating. This is it, the moment. He says the name and size of a sneaker into his little microphone. Just one pair. He knows from how you walk just what you need. He knows what size you’ll be. You see a young girl in a tee-shirt go to the back of the store and return with a cardboard box. You put the sneakers on and walk. The man tells you the numbness in your toes is something that will eventually go away. He uses a word you have never heard before, but hearing it, somehow, it makes perfect sense; he says: over-pronation. He assures you that you need correction for it. He says the sneakers will do the job. And, just like that, you take his word. You make the decision without thinking about it. You listen to the man. You buy the sneakers.
Years later, the doctors say the post in the sneakers was too rigid. They talk about nerve damage. They say this is something they see from time to time, the result of ill-fitting footwear. They give you injections in your foot and the injections they give you lead to a condition called Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy. You have never heard of this condition. You have never heard of anyone having it. The specialists explain that something has changed in your body. Now the nerves interpret everything – touch, temperature, vibration, sound – as pain. Your foot swells up to twice the size it used to be. Your toes seem to crumble. Your skin turns blue, purple, black. The specialists tell you there is no cure. They explain how it can spread, and soon it does spread to your other foot, your hands, your face. In your body there is a sickening burn like a toothache. Your heart pounds. The doctors say you will be in pain for the rest of your life.
Your aunt has a friend of a friend who has this same condition. She gives him your number and he calls you. He tells you about his life, about what his life has been like living with the disease. He tells you how they call it the suicide disease. He tells you about the day he got his leg amputated because the pain was so unbearable. He says, “Honey, it’s the worst idea I’ve ever had to come to terms with. It’s like cancer, but you don’t die.”
You agree: this is the worst idea you’ve had to come to terms with. In fact, you can’t come to terms with it. You did not understand that such a thing could happen to person, to a life. You simply did not understand this was possible. There was so much planning, so many things you were going to do, and in this instant, everything has changed. You cannot accept it for a long time. You travel to doctors all around the country hoping someone will offer a better disease. But the doctors all say the same thing. Until eventually one doctor tells you about a new treatment, an experimental treatment, that uses the drug Ketamine. He says they put people in a sort-of coma and when they wake up they are pain free. He compares it to rebooting a computer. You cannot comprehend what he’s saying. You cannot comprehend what this treatment will be like, what your life will be like.
You want to go back and shake her. You want to tell her not to try to be so smart all the time, to get her sneakers at the mall, the way every other person does. Don’t listen to Allison, who runs marathons, who is skinny, and pretty, and who will send you to that store. Don’t listen to her. Don’t take the job at the company where she works, you fool. Don’t switch your major in your junior year of college. Stick with Psychology. Stick with what you were planning to do originally. You never would have moved here, never would have been in this city, worked in publishing, in this place, with this runner, who’ll send you to this store, to see this man, who seems like he knows what he’s doing, who’ll sell you a pair of sneakers that will ruin your feet, your life. Pick the other college. Make the other friend. Be led in the other direction to dream the other dream. Not here. Do not come to this place, where this man, this shoe salesman, is waiting.
Mary Jones’s work has appeared in Brevity, The Greensboro Review, The Chattahoochee Review, Santa Monica Review, and Meridian.