New Shoes

I had this post ready to go for the one year anniversary of Joey's transplant, but I couldn't do it. It was supposed to be a change of pace from the normal, diary-like onslaught of feelings and details. It was supposed to be cReATiVe.

I made a mistake. A miniscule, no-one-would-even-notice, it-doesn't-change-the-story-in-the-slightest-mistake. When Joey proofread it for me, he pointed out that I misremembered a detail and it was devastating. I wish I was exaggerating, but looking back, I was 100% depressed. With the benefit of hindsight, I can list several things that negatively impacted my mental health this January, but at the time, all I could pinpoint was me being a stupid moron. Why didn't I write more often when we were going through it? Why did I wait so long to start documenting the details? How come I wasn't more organized? HOW COULD I HAVE GOTTEN IT WRONG?! I even considered deleting the blog in its entirety. 

Thankfully, in a moment of rational thought, I decided I would just put it out of my mind for a while and hope I felt up to it one day in the future. It's time. Here's the story. The correct version.

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"Those are the dumbest shoes," I tell him. I am a bit of a shoe snob.

"I don't care. They're comfortable."

After I peruse the clearance for new shoes I don't need (I rarely find anything I like in my size), we take his shoes to the checkout, marvel at how much we saved using Kohl's cash, and head out-- maybe stopping at the neighboring Disc Replay or Culver's before heading home. 

We've had this same discussion many times in our relationship. Every few years, he wears out one pair of New Balance and we head to Kohl's to shop for a replacement. Every time, I try to encourage branching out and every time, he considers it... then ends up with the exact same pair he's replacing. There was one exception over the years when he got a little wild (his words) and part of the "N" was orange on an otherwise identical replacement pair. 

Once we get home, I set aside the receipt (to celebrate another one of our frugal wins every time I look at it) and he puts the shoebox in the closet to wait until the old pair has sufficiently run their course.

It's October 10, 2021 and he finally branches out. He's shopping alone and sends me pictures to comment on. He still chooses New Balance (of course), but not his usual trail running style. These new shoes are cool. He pays and comes home. I save the receipt and he puts the box in the closet. 

It's been one month since he was listed for his transplant. It's been three months since his legs started swelling. Getting well-worn shoes on is a pain and the thought of breaking in a new pair is too much. Simply getting dressed is starting to become a chore.

I think about the new shoes often. "What if he never gets to wear them? Should I put them on him for his funeral? Oh right. He wants to be cremated. Well, I don't want the first time he wears them to also be the last... and then to have them end up as dust? What a waste. But I can't use them. Do I return them? Do I turn them into a makeshift shrine? I should probably donate them."

Sometimes these thoughts spiral uncontrolled in my head and I end up sharing them out loud. It's nice to talk about it with him although he usually doesn't have a very strong opinion on what happens to the shoes if he dies. These conversations come surprisingly easy. It feels good to be prepared. 

A few more months pass. He becomes more and more uncomfortable. There's been four major disappointments. We continue to talk about what to do with his stuff if he doesn't get a transplant. The shoes mock me from the closet. 

It's March 4, 2022. It's been just over a month since the transplant and he feels okay enough to venture out. Today, he decides, is the day to get those shoes out of the closet-- the shoes that are still quite boring (in the opinion of someone whose favorite pair of shoes are rainbow tie dye cat sneakers), but definitely a change from before.

One of our stops is Target. We have an item to return and an order to pick up. As we're leaving, the cashier says he likes Joey's shoes.

This is the first time he's ever been complimented on shoes in his life.

"New Life, New Balance."