White Daisy Shoes- CP and Little Me
By Rachael Ransom
I turned the corner and headed down another aisle. The shelves were full of shoes for every occasion. Sleek stilettoes on standby for their first night on the town, cork wedges craving summer sidewalks and sunset evenings, brown boots eager to take a step in their first snowfall…
“Rach! Over here, sweetie.”
The sound of my dad’s voice quieted the shoe’s narratives. I followed his words around to the kid’s section of the store. I saw him there, his tall body crouched low, my braces (AFO: ankle-foot orthotics) tucked under his arm.
“These should work great! Why don’t you try them on? Let’s see if they fit.”
I sighed. As I sat down, dad placed the “Smart Fit” shoebox next to me. I glanced down at the shoes I walked in wearing. They were covered in schoolyard dirt and the bottom tread was worn down completely from walking up higher on my toes.
I slipped off my shoes, closing my eyes briefly, listening to the rip of the Velcro. My dad handed me my braces and I stepped into them one at a time, feeling the familiar sensation of cold plastic on the back of my calf. Dad watched as I did up the straps, one by the ankle, the other just below my knee. He always wanted to make sure I didn’t do them up too tight. I lifted the shoes he found out of their box. They were white with Velcro straps and much larger than my current shoes. The others had so much personality, they had places to be, they had stories. These shoes were just too quiet.
My AFO’s had a total galaxy theme to them, painted with stars and planets against a bold purple background. I began to think that maybe a white shoe to go with them would work best. Mom always said it was good to try and match your shoes with the rest of your outfit.
I slipped on the new white shoes over my braces and did up the straps. My dad held out his hands and I took them, standing up slowly off of the seat.
“How do they feel? Can you walk in them?”
I let go of his hands and started down the centre of the aisle. I couldn’t help but giggle feeling like a clown that escaped the circus with shoes so much bigger than my small, size three feet. Reaching the end of the aisle, I stopped to turn back around, and it was there that I saw them.
Navy blue canvas shoes covered in delicate daisies. I suddenly pictured myself as Julie Andrews, twirling gracefully, arms outstretched, frolicking by the hillside. One thought brought me back to reality – laces.
“You like those?”
“They won’t fit my braces.”
Dad brought them off the shelf. I took off the white clown shoes, my AFO’s, and slipped on the new pair. I watched as dad crossed the laces, looping them together in a beautiful bow. It seemed like a magician’s secret I was dying to learn.
“We’re gonna get both pairs.”
I smiled big.
“You’re more than the shoes you have to wear, bud. You’ll learn to tie them like everyone else.” “You think so?”
It seemed like a daunting task. I couldn’t help but feel like that was something other kids did that was just out of my reach.
“I know so.”
At that moment it wasn’t about the shoes. I realized that cerebral palsy wasn’t an end. It wasn’t something to feel trapped or burdened with. It was a tool. Something to make me stronger, keep me motivated, and driven to succeed.
I left the store with confidence, and a new mission – to tie the laces of my new, navy blue, little white daisy shoes. A few months later, I did just that.
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