Gout father, gout son

I’m jolted awake.

It’s like someone has just crushed my big toe with a sledge hammer and then ran it over and over under a sewing machine.

I curse under my breath at both the pain and prospect of what is going on.

The #$%^& gout is back! My thoughts are filled with dread, the anticipated agony of having to touch toe to floor, the painful and slow process of getting ready for work, the aching effort of getting up the stairs to my office.

As I lie awake consumed by these things, I imagine my late father looking down at me sympathetically but laughing.

He suffered from chronic gout. It would flare up a couple of times each year, causing him to limp or hobble everywhere.

As a teen, I’d tease him about it ¬– a lot – calling him “Gouty Gord” as he hopped around the house in obvious pain.

“If you only knew,” he’d tell me. “There’s nothing funny about this.”

I now know what he meant and have a couple of annual attacks myself. Like father, like son.

And this current gout attack couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Some colleagues from away are visiting the office and I’d like to be mobile.

My son’s hockey is starting. I’m a coach, but even the thought of putting a skate on right now is cruel and unthinkable.

And I’m on a roll when it comes to hitting my target of 10,000-plus steps per day. I’m finally into a routine, and this happens.

I lay restless and wide awake in pain for the rest of the night.

Sometime after 4 a.m. I find myself rewriting an old Tears for Fears song.

“Gout, gout, get the heck out. This is a thing I can do without. C’mon. Not walking ‘cause of you, C’mon.”

This doesn’t ease the pain, or inch me closer to my lifelong dream of rock stardom.

Nope, anyway you confront it, gout sucks.

Just before six, I decide to get up and start the day. Stepping onto the floor is excruciating. I can put no weight on that foot and grimace at the thought of trying it again.

I stop, take a deep breath and slowly get ready. Limping, hopping. Wincing in pain. Just like Gouty Gord.

When I’m dressed, it’s time to go downstairs and eat – something that usually takes a few seconds is a journey.

After breakfast, I’m finally able to take my gout medication. It must be taken with food.

And now it’s a waiting game. The medication takes a while to kick in but works well when it does.

I hobble to the car and climb gingerly behind the wheel.

At work, I crawl up the steps to my office. “Good morning,” someone says. I manage a smile and under my breath say, “Gout morning.”

The meds work after a couple of hours and movement is more manageable. Thankfully, gout is very treatable. There are far, far worse ailments and conditions, and this one is really just an inconvenience.

Still, while lying awake earlier with the throbbing toe, I remembered that the word “gout” in French means “taste.”

That’s ironic because I wouldn’t want my arch nemesis to get a taste of this.