Walking In My Shoes


I have a $5.87 pair of Walmart tennis shoes full of memories. I can’t seem to part with them, though I’ve gladly purged everything else associated with that dark time. I instead occasionally choose them from the closet, strap them on, and begin my trip down memory lane.

Three years ago this month, I took my baby to the ER after dinner. After ten trips to the doctor and countless tests and scans in the last six weeks, we still had no answers, only agreement with a mother’s diagnosis that she was very sick. We’d watched her mysteriously but steadily deteriorate until that night, when we made yet another desperate attempt to get her help. After a couple of hours at the ER, we got our first distant hope of an answer, from a doctor who said she needed to be at Children’s in Little Rock. He saved her life, the first of several times to follow. After another hour waiting for an ambulance, I learned there were none. How does an entire region of half a million people run out of ambulances? At one in the morning, I signed her out of the ER against their wishes, gassed up the car, and started off on the three hour drive. We arrived at Children’s at 4:30 a.m. with the clothes on our back…we were finally going to get her answers and relief. It ultimately took another two and a half weeks for those answers, as she careened to critical. Complete treatment was still months away. I knew none of that yet when I found myself at Walmart, 36 hours after driving to the ER, needing everything from a toothbrush and toothpaste, to a jacket in July and warmer shoes than my little slip ons, since they keep an Arctic temperature in hospitals. The cheap tennies fit the bill, and I’ve had them ever since.

As the months went by and remission kicked in, our worry began to fade that we’d need another sudden run to the hospital. We finally unpacked the overnight bags we’d kept at the ready for so long; the shoes now sit next to their colleagues in the closet. When I now occasionally pull them out, they take me back, to a time of crushing fear and stress. But somehow they haven’t stored up any residual bad feelings. Instead, they remind me of how far we’ve come, of what we survived. The memories aren’t good, but the ending was. I learned how strong I can be when I need to, which is useful, because I know the day will come when I will need to be that strong again. When I do, the shoes will be there to remind me that I can.

“Life is tough, my darling, but so are you.”  –Stephanie Bennett Henry

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About Kelly J. McCleary

Wife and mother of three, author, financial professional View all posts by Kelly J. McCleary

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