I found out from my sister. And the part that still makes me angry is that she is a menopause specialist in Ohio. She does this for a living.
So when I finally called her, venting about my feet, apologizing for complaining like always, she did not even pause.
"You know that's the menopause, right?"
I laughed at her. My feet? What do my feet have to do with menopause?
She told me she sees it constantly. That there is a name for it now. And that most doctors, the ones I had been trusting for two years, were never trained to connect the two.
That is when it hit me. It was never that the answer was hard to find. It was that not one of the doctors I saw knew to look for it. My own sister knew in a single sentence over the phone.
I got off that call and I cried. Not because I was sad. Because I was furious. And because I was scared of how close I had come to accepting that left-behind future as my life.
Once I understood the truth, I understood what my feet actually needed.
Not another pill. Not another boot. Not another cushioned shoe built for a foot I no longer have.
My feet had changed. And I needed something built for the foot I have now.