It is barely visible now, but nearly 20 years ago when it happened it was an angry purple smear of a scar across the top of my foot.

I was carrying an unframed mirror—why? I don’t remember—and dropped it. On my bare foot. The corner of the mirror sank into my foot and almost immediately my foot erupted with a swath of shiny purple satin. It was horrifying, but the part I remember better was the emergency room. I was rushed right back after bleeding all over the carpet (why carpet?) in the waiting room, only to be greeted by a twelve year old doctor playing air guitar. I mean, really. I was only thirteen but I knew enough to know that I wanted badly to get up, hobble home and just bleed to death in a corner to avoid being mutilated by that joker.


I did not, as fate would have it, go home and bleed to death, and actually stuck around for surgery on my foot. Things may not have turned out so well were it not for the anesthesiologist. Do you remember the crying Indian from the Keep America Beautiful campaign in the 70s? The anesthesiologist was that guy. I mean, not really, but he could have been. He never actually spoke a word, but he was just. So. Calming.

I do not ascribe to the principles of mediation, but my foot and I are glad that someone does.