This was my foot.
It might have only been one single bacterium, poised for the chance to colonise. He might have waited his whole life, limited as it might be, waiting for the moment that I stood on broken glass in my own kitchen. His chance to breed, colonise, invade my skin, muscles, tendons, blood, body. Sepsis.
Having spent its first 20 years of life growing up, running, jumping, hiking and climbing, my foot spent its next 8 years at the centre of an internal struggle, unbeknown to many. Savagely painful and deformed by infection, it remained hidden behind a smile and a laugh. It was this cloak of joy perhaps, which made it so hard for some people to understand my decision.
I was surprised to find such peace and familiarity in my decision, once made. The restless nights and tears and grief-filled chats with friends now suddenly felt resolved. The decision which once felt insurmountable, now felt as easy as any other - Should I leave the house today? Should I wear pants today? Should I eat Nutella out of the jar today?
And so it began.