WORD FOR THE DAY "peevish" (adj.) [pee' vish] "1. cross, querulous, or fretful, as from vexation or discontent; 2. showing annoyance, irritation, or bad mood; 3. perverse or obstinate." (dictionary.com) Example: "My father would often utter a peevish refrain about his sore feet ... over and over again."

A PEEVISH refrain about gouty feet, yet again

“I’m not going,” says my 84-year-old father, beginning his peevish refrain about his feet ... again.  “My feet hurt.”
      Not this morning, I say to myself as I try to complete this 6:30 a.m. wake-up-and-get-ready telephone call to the nursing home. We don’t have time to review the importance of Dad’s keeping this 8:00 a.m. doctor’s appointment.  
      “Dad, you have this appointment so that we can take care of your feet,” I keep my voice measured and calm.  “You want to get out of that wheelchair, don’t you?”
      “Well, can’t we just set another one?” he petulantly asks.
      “It will take us weeks to get another appointment, Dad,” I explain, keeping a whine in check.  “Your doctor is going to prescribe some medication for your gout, then, you’ll feel better.”
      “Don’t have gout,” he says, exasperated. “Scraped my foot against the side of the tub and hurt it.  I think I sprained it or something.”
      Why is “gout” is such an evil word with my father?  Does it conjure up images of a rotund glutton, chewing on a huge turkey leg, fat dribbling down his chin and onto his portly, covered-in-stains belly?
      I tell my father I’m sorry he doesn’t remember, but when he went to the doctor five months ago for that foot injury, the doctor had said it MIGHT be a sprain and to stay off of it, apply cold packs, and take Tylenol. He’d referred Dad to a rheumatologist because the red, swollen second toe on his other foot was probably gout.
      “I don’t have gout,” my father had said.  “never have.”  
      Yet he went to the specialist and seemed a little more convinced, at least of the toe, when the woman doctor showed him photos of what gout actually looked like and had him compare it to his own toe.  Yep. Red. Swollen. Mottled with circular, round impressions. Extremely painful to the touch and throbbing with every beat of Dad’s pulse.  Non-committal as ever, my father had only grunted.
      “What’s the matter with this other foot?” Dad had asked her, challenging.  “I scraped it on the side of the tub when I took a bath.”
      Picking up the swollen foot and intently looking at the outside edge toward the pinkie and then, to the red knuckle of the big toe, Dr. Susan did not hesitate with the diagnosis. “Gout.”
      “That’s not gout.  That?” my father had exclaimed, jabbing the air with his pointer finger toward the offending foot.  “I hit it on the tub.”
      Dr. Susan slowly explained that, when my father had scraped his foot against the side of the tub, he had aggravated the crystallized uric acid nodules in his blood.  These nodules had caused the swelling and pain, especially when any pressure had been put on them.
      My father had assumed a “wait-and-see” attitude and had refused to speak for the duration of the visit, allowing me to take the prescription, written for one intense week of three medications with challenging names like Prednisone, Allopurinol, and Colchicine.
      Through the subsequent weeks, the feet and toes healed; the medication kept his gout in check – until just recently. Dad experienced another gout flare, and we were back to an old, familiar conversation.
      “OK, Dad, humor me,” I beg.  “I’ve got the appointment all set.  Afterward, I’ll take you to breakfast”
      “Well, in my opinion, my foot hurts because I banged it on the tub . . .  I sat down, which I shouldn’t have done because my knee doesn’t work worth a damn, and as soon as I sat, I knew I couldn’t get up, but I grabbed the side of the tub . . .”
      “Um-hum.  Yes, Dad.  Uh-huh.” I’ve already heard the story many times.   “ . . . and you scraped your gouty foot trying to get up. . . five months ago,” I mutter under my breath.
      “I don’t have gout,” my father repeats the mantra.  “You’re gettin’ me mad.”
      “Dad, I’ll pick you up at 7:45.”  We really have to get off the phone.”
      “Now listen, I want this taken care of,” says my father of his painful foot.  “But I guess you’ve got your own opinion.”
      In my opinion, some things are not worth yet another circular argument.  I say nothing.
      “So when are you going to pick me up?” Dad finally asks . . .

© mary macdonell belisle