By John Carlson—
Recently, my feet fought a slug-out with gout.
Or not gout.
Some hip young medical people told me it was NOT gout. Supporting their contention was Nancy, who it turns out is a rabid “anti-gouter.” She insisted I couldn’t have been felled by gout, a medical condition historically attributed to loutish lifestyles of the rich and famous.
However, another incredibly ultra-hip young medical person thought it WAS gout.
So who knows?
Whatever it was that struck me down, being just four letters long, “gout” is a nice short word I can wield with a measure of alacrity. This is especially important while, in blatant bids for sympathy, I compare the unfairness of my own physical ailments with those of my buddies’ at Guardian Brewing Co. or The Fickle Peach.
The older I get, the more precious these woeful tales of undeserved physical torment become.
See, I am at a point in life where with every passing minute, I am more and more challenged by the weight that simple human existence casts upon me. This weight can take the form of, for example, gout. But when the young medical people assured me I didn’t have it, I readily agreed.
“No gout?” I said. “Great!”
But then they explained what I was suffering from was likely something sounding infinitely more serious, like “hypermarzipanbozoness.” That, of course, was unless my blood’s rising rigatoni readings were indicative of a relapse into “prenoodlecheckersplasty.”
To which I replied, “Huh?”
But gout?
No prob, Bob …
To some degree, this is due to the fact gout rhymes with so many other words. There’s stout. Drought. Snout. Kraut. Flout. And that’s just to name a few! But even more reflective of the true nature of gout are words including “clout,” “shout,” “bout” and “pout.”
Why are they more reflective of gout’s true essence? It’s the fact they illustrate human conflict as experienced in the throes of gout, or maybe not gout. Discussing my condition, I am likely to spout, “My bout with gout made me pout, because it felt like somebody had delivered my toes a painful clout, one that made me want to scream and shout!”
Anyway, my gout or not gout announced its arrival late one night when I woke up in bed thinking, “What the heck?” Out of the blue, it felt like badgers had mistaken the toes on my left foot for luscious Vienna sausages. Then by about 7 a.m., I was again thinking, “What the heck?” That’s because it felt like badgers had also mistaken the toes on my right foot for luscious Vienna sausages.
In truth, my toes hurt like heck. Stumbling off to the bathroom, I was moaning, groaning and taking the sort of mincing little steps required of aging Japanese geisha girls whose feet were bound in childhood, so they wouldn’t grow past a dainty four-inches long.
It was not a pleasant experience. Still, as any parent who has suffered child-related foot trauma knows, it happens. One night years ago, marching across our carpeted living room, I stepped on one of my kids’ wooden blocks, full-force and barefooted. For the next ten minutes, the words pouring excruciatingly from my lips could have come straight from scripts of the porn bombshell “Debbie Does Dallas,” interspersed with passages from Truman Capote’s murderous classic, “In Cold Blood,” plus the juiciest parts of the Book of Revelation.
That’s because feet feel intense pain.
But what exactly is gout?
Technically, gout is a form of arthritis in which uric acid crystals form. In microscope photos, these crystals look like razor-sharp medieval torture devices that could have convinced even a badass like Braveheart to trade his girlfriend to King Longshanks for just three minutes with a wee dram of Scotch and a clootie dumpling.
But speaking of nutrition …
Professional researchers studying the cause of gout have linked it to dietary habits, albeit with mixed results.
One such study links gout to beer drinking! Even I’m not dumb enough to fall for that nefarious propaganda from America’s malicious anti-beer/pro-gout lobby! Another study, however, links gout to eating organ meats like heart, brains and tongue. Having grown up gagging watching as my Dad chewed cold mouthfuls of wet lumpy cow tongue served by my Grandma Hulda at Carlson family holiday dinners, it seems a perfectly reasonable explanation for gout to me.
Another potential culprit is fish.
For that reason I limit myself to two species, one of those being the dill-crusted cod at Vera Mae’s Bistro, which I could eat every day. While the name of the other species escapes me, it is those square fishes Ronald McDonald nets, deep fries, then slaps on a bun with a slice of cheese and some tartar sauce at his Golden Arches.
At any rate, as I write this, I am just happy that with a little medicine and a lot of sitting around with my feet propped up to promote healing, they are back to being the companionable body parts I’ve come to know and love.
And that, my friends, is the story of my recent bout with gout.
Or, as the case may be, not gout.
John’s weekly columns are sponsored by Beasley & Gilkison, Muncie’s trusted attorneys for over 120 years.
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A former longtime feature writer and columnist for The Star Press in Muncie, Indiana, John Carlson is a storyteller with an unflagging appreciation for the wonderful people of East Central Indiana and the tales of their lives, be they funny, poignant, inspirational or all three. John’s columns appear on MuncieJournal.com every Friday.
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