Paint Your Toenails!

When You Find Your Courage

People I admire, such as Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde¹, urge everyone to have courage. I thought back to my childhood. By age twelve, I was a pro at the months-long stays in a Crippled Children’s hospital. I’d already gone twice from my Arizona home to the hospital in Utah, each time an in-patient for more than three months.

After several surgeries designed to make my paralyzed arm and hand function better, I was certain of one thing. None of the operations so far had improved my life. The tendon and muscle transfers performed on me were nothing more than experiments to see what might happen.

Nothing much happened. Those doctors flat-out lied to my face.

When I was sent off to Utah for a third try at surgically “fixing” me, I went with an enormous chip on my shoulder. I was an orthopedic guinea pig. The surgeons were politicians, promising me and my family results that never materialized.

I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was a tween, complete with all sorts of buddings and the requisite temper tantrums. And I was really pissed to be missing the premier of a Beatles movie.

But after I arrived in Salt Lake City, had all my clothes sealed into a box and was assigned a bed on the Big Girls’ Ward, fear overtook me. Instead of indignation, cold terror ran from my head to my feet. I wasn’t afraid of the pain or the pain shots anymore. I was scared out of my mind, knowing I was powerless. Not brave.

The people in charge were going to implement their plan under the guise of improving my life. But no one had asked me if I wanted another surgery, especially since the last one had side effects that made things worse.

They assumed that I’d love their surgical tinkering, even if there was no evidence that it would work as intended. Even if the operation made my appearance even more wonky. Even if I hated the whole idea.

By that age, all I really cared about was looking as normal as possible. I’d spent a lifetime learning coping tricks. The last thing I wanted was some surgery that screwed up what I had left.

The night before the surgery, I lay awake in the Dead Bed (what we called the spot that meant you were going to surgery next). That close to the nurse’s station, I was careful not to sniffle—crying got you hauled down the hall to the cast room. At least I had my little secret—the nurses had forgotten to remove my red toenail polish.

Still, I was so scared that my teeth chattered. I had an awful taste in my mouth, no doubt from not getting any dinner. I stared up at the dark and tried to think of some way out. God seemed strangely absent, but I prayed anyway. Every single prayer ended with Help!—the title of that movie I was missing.

Just before dawn, I slept, dreaming that Jesus stood at the foot of my bed, massaging my ice-cold feet. He gently squeezed my toes. I thought I heard, “Red toenails, huh?” The Lord smiled.

I know, bizarre.

In the morning, like the previous surgeries, some guy rolled a gurney into the ward. I knew to climb on and away we went. There was the elevator that made my stomach drop. Here were the OR’s double doors. The giant bright light and all the people with matching gowns and hats and masks. Lame attempts to lighten the mood. I couldn’t stop shaking. The operating table might as well have been a guillotine.

I told myself that a smarter person would’ve figured a way out. But there was no escape. In my dramatic adolescent way, I hoped there really was a heaven in case I died.

Then a doctor wiggled my big toe. “How’d you get in here with red toenail polish?” There was chuckling in the OR as the anesthesia mask came down over my nose and mouth. As I went wherever unconscious people go, I remembered my dream, how Jesus had seemed impressed with my tiny rebellion. Like He was saying, “Dang, girl. Take that bit of courage wherever you go.”

These days, I’m painting my toenails red again. Maybe it’ll help me stand up for the truth, for what I believe in, when it’s risky to do so. Especially when it’s risky. Red polish might help me walk with my head up, reject the spin, the lies, the smoke and mirrors.

A pedicure won’t shield anybody from the world—when I was twelve that last surgery wasn’t great either. But it did give me the courage to say, “No more.” I’d never again allow surgeons to experiment on my paralyzed muscles. And I’d seek truth not lies, facts not fictions, hope not hate.

I’m not always courageous. I still pray for Help! But Jesus said, Love the Lord your God and love your neighbor as yourself. I will, even if these days, it takes big courage.

In the recovery room, I was still woozy, and the room kept spinning. I had trouble deciding what was a dream and what was real. I poked a foot out from the covers. My red polish was still there.

Bishop Budde’s book, How to Be Brave, is excellent reading.

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