It was a Sunday, a little after seven. I let myself into my mother's house with groceries and found her on the couch, both feet in a mixing bowl of ice water, a heating pad plugged in beside her, waiting its turn.
When she lifted one foot out, the line from her sock was still printed around her ankle, hours after the sock came off.
"Nothing helps," she said, without looking up. "I'm so tired of them."
That afternoon I'd helped a man take his first steps on a new knee. I had nothing to offer my own mother but a dry towel.
It started small, after long days in the church kitchen, where she'd run the Wednesday supper for eleven years. Then it was most days. Then every day, on a schedule you could set a clock by.
She stopped wearing the sandals she loved. She handed the Wednesday supper to someone else, because a few hours at the serving counter meant a night of burning legs and no sleep.
And she'd done everything she was told. I know, because I checked her like a patient:
Compression socks, properly measured. Off within two or three hours, and the swelling collected above the band
A stronger pair. Same problem, higher up.
A water pill. Up all night, dizzy spells, swollen again by mid-afternoon.
Feet up in the recliner. Back the moment she stood.
Salt cut to nothing. Bland food, same ankles.
Each helped for an afternoon, at best.
The tests went the same way: bloodwork, kidneys, liver, an ultrasound, a review of every pill she took. All fine. "At your age, some swelling is to be expected." Then: socks, and feet up.
I stayed the night, and started treating it as a case.
I knew where legs like hers go when nobody figures them out:
Less walking every year, an arm to get up from the table, someone else putting your socks on. Not my mother, not for lack of an answer.