On Mending Our Broken Hearts and Toes
First, there's the bewildering crack. Next, the clumsy fumble at the threshold between two spaces. Then, the sense of flying through confusion and pain.
Three days after I jam my right foot on a bathroom threshold, the radiologist confirms what I’d already suspected: “Non-displaced impacted frx at the distal aspect of the proximal phalanx of the second toe.”
In other words, I’d jammed my right foot so hard that it fractured bone. Later, I’d Google the words “distal” (farther, more distant to the heart) and “proximal” (nearer to the heart).
Duh.
The ridiculous accident happened on July 11th, which happens to be my late sister Beth’s birthday. At the time, I was in the middle of a weeklong writers’ residency at Ragdale in Lake Forest, Illinois, staying in a lovely suite named Sarah’s Room, working on my memoir about sisterhood lost and found.
Since that day, I’ve been thinking about those in my life who are near and far.
For my newest subscribers who don’t yet know the story, I lost my younger sister, Beth, in 2018 when she was 47 years old. Her death was sudden.
Back in 2022, four years after Beth’s passing, I was examining the results of an at-home DNA test I’d taken several years prior. While doing so, I made a shocking DNA discovery. I learned that Beth and I have an older half-sister we never knew existed. On the day of that discovery, I’d woken up as the oldest sister in my family—only to realize I was technically the middle of three sisters born to our biological father. Both of my sisters, who share an uncanny physical resemblance, were named Elizabeth at birth.
To keep things clear, I’ll keep referring to my late sister as Beth and to our “new” older sister as Elizabeth.
For five decades, I walked this earth not knowing we had an older sibling who, like Beth and me, had been raised catholic and loved the band ABBA.
In the two years since I discovered my older sister Elizabeth, we’ve worked hard to build a loving relationship while living 800 miles apart. It still feels surreal that Elizabeth is even in my life, just as it still feels surreal that Beth is no longer here. I think about—and long for—Beth every day, and I try my best to help Elizabeth understand the younger sister she never had the chance to meet.
So.
Last week, on what would have been Beth’s 54th birthday, I was getting ready for bed after my second day at my writing residency.
The floor of the bathroom in my suite was slightly higher than the wood floor in the bedroom, so a small, wooden, threshold “ramp” had been created to help guests navigate the elevation difference between the two spaces. Apparently, I’d either forgotten (or miscalculated) this detail when I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Instead of lifting my right foot up and into the bathroom, I took a normal step and slammed my right foot directly into the solid threshold.
Before I felt the bewildering pain, a piercing CRACK echoed through the room. As I stumbled into the bathroom, I lost my balance but caught my fall on the closed toilet lid and smacked my forehead against the open bathroom door.
My entire right foot felt like it was on fire, and I knew immediately that I’d broken something.
Still, I wanted to give things a day to settle down. If I was very careful, I could still walk on my right foot, and I wasn’t keen on searching for an out-of-town doctor. But, two days later, when my foot felt tingly and began going cold, I knew I had to get it checked out.
My writing residency was in Lake Forest, Illinois, where the local McDonald’s is as stunningly refined as the nearby palatial estates. When I walked tenderly into the local urgent care center and found myself in a lobby straight out of the Went With the Wind sketch from The Carol Burnett Show, I had to smile.
As the nurse took my vitals, I couldn’t help but make a comment about how stately the lobby was.
“Yeah,” she said. “We get a lot of comments about the stairs,” she said, shaking her head and laughing.
A quick examination prompted a set of xrays which not only confirmed the break but also reminded me of the screws I’d had placed in that same foot almost 20 years ago.
The small break I suffered this time is minor. It’ll heal within a couple of months, and it’s not so bad that I need crutches or a boot. I have to change my gait a bit, but I’ll be back to “normal” (whatever that is!) in no time.
What a relief.
But as I stared at that xray later that day, my mind flew back to 2005 when I elected to have a surgeon break both of my feet, remove the bony, painful bumps at the base of both of my big toes, and secure my newly shaped feet with titanium screws.
Although recovering from two broken feet was a long, difficult journey, I’ve never regretted having that surgery. It helped me to walk without pain and to wear shoes off the rack that don’t cut into my skin. Since that surgery, I’ve even completed several Chicago marathons.
However, in the immediate aftermath of that operation, the pain was astonishingly intense. I’d been fully prepared for what to expect, yet I was nevertheless shocked by how helpless and uncomfortable I felt post-op. Despite knowing there’d be immense discomfort, I struggled for longer than I’d expected, trying to manage and tolerate my distress.
This all got me thinking about my sister Beth’s death, and that, in some ways, I knew I’d been anxiously preparing myself for it. For now, I won’t go into the details of her passing. I will say, however, that, for years, I’d noticed worrisome signs and expressed my concerns about her health — until I was encouraged not to. I deeply regret that I heeded that advice.
I regret that I didn’t listen to my gut and act with more confidence and conviction to support my sister. I wish I’d known more about how to be there for her. Rather than making myself small, I wish I’d been less hesitant to turn to others for perspective, for feedback, for information.
On the morning I received the call that my sister had died, I stood motionless in my kitchen, barely able to speak and incapable of forming coherent thoughts. To this day, more than 6 years later, whenever I write about losing Beth, I hold my breath as the words work their way from my brain to the keyboard. When I write about the loss, I find myself sighing, yawning, and shifting in my seat. When I revisit the loss, my broken heart cracks wide open.
Why, then, engage in something so painful? Why revisit those memories… and that pain? Why subject myself to the discomfort?
The answer for me is easy.
NOT thinking about Beth is more painful.
NOT writing about Beth is more distressing.
NOT talking about Beth only compounds the loss.
When others mention her name and I get a little tearful, I’m always amazed how quickly they’ll apologize for upsetting me. The tears, I often explain, are welcome. Those tears are sometimes the only physical evidence I have of her existence. I WANT to talk about her…to honor her memory…and to keep her spirit alive.
Despite knowing that we’ll ALL die someday, and no matter how prepared I may have been, my sister’s death left me reeling and devastated, standing frozen at the threshold between two fiercely different spaces: before loss and after loss.
In the decade before my sister died, I often experienced anticipatory grief, fearing that I’d lose her. Still, I rarely let myself actually imagine life without her; it seemed too incomprehensible, too unfathomable. I’d imagine that something would happen to her…but then my storytelling would stop, perhaps protectively, and force me back into the present because, come on, Christine — that’s so negative…so pessimistic…so UNHELPFUL. When I felt anticipatory grief rising in me, I’d make myself think about anything else. Was this naivete? Fear? Denial?
It no longer surprises me that everyday events (like breaking a toe) can easily take me down little rabbit holes of memories and feelings and reflections about my sister. I used to feel sheepish and self-conscious about it, but I no longer do, since these memories and feelings and reflections are what I have left of her. I see it as a gift, this unexpected nostalgia creeping in. I stop and pay attention to it. I no longer fear writing or talking about it. I refuse to worry about offending those who’d rather I stay quiet.
When my sister was alive, I assumed she’d always be here, no matter what. Now, living on the other side of her death, I assume that grief will show up whenever it damn well pleases. It’s not worth fighting against the inevitable. In fact, I’ve come to welcome it.
When I first told my “new”, older sister about the wonderful person our younger sister had been, I felt an enormous responsibility to bring Beth “to life” for Elizabeth. On the day I met Elizabeth in 2022, my pain about Beth, who’d by then been gone four years, was still like a raw, open wound. However, when I saw the look in Elizabeth’s eyes as I showed her photos and shared stories of Beth’s incredible 47 years, I knew that speaking about Beth was essential…that sharing memories can be life-giving.
And, I loved learning more about Elizabeth’s life. When she described having had the same foot surgery I did to correct her big toes, we howled with laughter. I’ve met very few people willing to endure that operation, but like me, she had. Like me, she’d tried to prepare for the worst. Like me, she survived the aftermath.
For as long as I’ve been alive, Elizabeth has been walking this earth and I didn’t even know it. Then, when she stepped into my life after Beth’s death, it felt like a bittersweet miracle, like a plot twist straight out of the movies.
I know that Beth would have loved Elizabeth. As I write this, I can hear Beth’s boisterous laughter, and I can imagine her shaking her head over the absurdity of it all. I can picture her slapping her leg and shouting, “You’re supposed to miss me…not replace me!”
In no way does Elizabeth replace Beth, nor will anyone. She was one of a kind.
These days, I’ve been tending to the mending of my injury. I keep my foot elevated and iced, and I keep my sore foot cushioned by soft surroundings. It’s funny to think that, after Beth died, it was my chin that I had to consciously elevate despite my frozen heart. In those days, I was cocooned by so many friends — and even complete strangers — with the tender cushioning we know as love.
Just this morning, I read my doctor’s discharge papers again: non-displaced impacted frx at the distal aspect of the proximal phalanx of the second toe. For decades, Beth had been my proximal (nearby) sister, whereas Elizabeth was my distal (far away) sibling.
Now, those terms are reversed.
If there’s anything I’ve learned by re-examining my foot xray, it’s that the evidence of someone’s history isn’t always visible. We all carry past experiences that others simply cannot see.
And, if there’s anything I’ve learned from both of my beautiful, brunette sisters, it’s that tender hearts — just like broken bones — eventually figure out how to heal.
Christine Wolf is the co-author of Politics, Partnerships, & Power: The Lives of Ralph E. and Marguerite Stitt Church, the first biography about a husband and wife who served their 13th Illinois Congressional District. Wolf is a memoir-writing coach and founder of Writers’ Haven LLC, a cooperative workspace for women writers near Chicago. Get in touch at www.christinewolf.com/contact.
“…the evidence of someone’s history isn’t always visible…” wow, that hit me ❤️ What a simple yet profound truth. Every time I think I understand my own grief journey I am reminded that I’m still at the beginning. xoxo
So beautifully written! Thank you for sharing your journey with grief and the unanticipated moments of joy. I really resonate with your feelings of wanting to talk about Beth as a way to keep her spirit alive. I love when someone brings up Simon for those same reasons. Thank you Christine. 💗