Dorothy was 67 when she first came to see me.
Former district nurse. On her feet for thirty years. The kind of woman who'd spent her whole life looking after everyone else and had only recently started paying attention to what her own body was telling her.
What it had been telling her, for two years, was this.
By lunchtime her feet were so swollen she had to loosen her shoes to get through the afternoon. By evening they felt like they belonged to someone else. Tight. Heavy. Almost numb.
She'd stopped going to her weekly book group. The walk from the car park felt like too much of a gamble. She'd started turning down her daughter's invitations — Sunday lunches, shopping trips, afternoon visits. All declined. Easier than explaining.
She'd quietly stopped making plans that required trusting her own body.
"I feel like I'm disappearing," she told me.
Then she did something I'll never forget.
She pressed her thumb into her shin and held it there for a few seconds. When she lifted it, the dent stayed. Sitting there in the flesh like an indent in bread dough.
"Look at them," she said. "I can't even see my ankle bones anymore."
She wasn't being dramatic. She was describing exactly what this does to a person over time. It shrinks your world. Quietly. Gradually. Until the life you were living starts to feel like something that belonged to someone else.