My Facebook feed is flooded with references to feet. No I am not a secret member of the ‘I love feet’ fetish society, but I am a Christian and this day is one of Biblical significance – commemorating the Last Supper and the ceremonial washing of the Disciples’ feet by Jesus.
Feet mean a lot to me; they remind me of my dad. And strangely enough I have his exact same feet (except a feminine version- never thought I would be so grateful for that) serving as a comforting and funny ‘memento’.
As children, my sister and I would often wash and massage dad’s stinky feet after a hard day’s work (he worked 2-3 jobs). We did this in the hope that he would ‘show us the money’ as he normally ‘paid’ us. My sister and I were no more than 8 & 12 years old. We would take off dad’s socks and massage his notoriously cheesy feet with any concoction we could get our hands on- cocoa butter, Vicks, Baby lotion you name, we used it. We would happily crack his toes, one of which had been broken years before in a football match and had the scar to show for it. He loved the pampering (who wouldn’t?) and we loved listening to his banter.
Blue cheese: Dad’s feet had a similar fragrance! (Joking! )
More often than not, the session would end with my sister getting paid £1.00 and I, 50p despite doing the same, if not more work. “How come she gets paid more than me even though we have done the same amount of work? That’s child slave labour!” Knowing full well it was because of the age difference, my dad, renowned for his mischievous nature and witty sense of humour would respond “It’s the minimum wage but at least you don’t get taxed!”
Fast forward 20 odd years later and there I am kneeling down by the bedside, massaging my father’s feet but this time he is bed bound. Sickness is ravaging his body and sapping what little strength is left, but the cheeky charm and twinkle in the eye still remains. Each time I visited him in the last 18 months of his life, it always included giving him a foot massage with drops of peppermint oil, accompanied by the sounds of smooth Jazz, Soul or Gospel music to soothe him and provide temporary respite from the suffering.
I will never forget the last time I massaged his feet. Dad was in hospital and was placed opposite a grumpy old man who had mental health problems. The man, in his anger, had upset dad the day before through his ill conceived words. Clearly annoyed because of the level of coughing and constant beeping emanating from dad’s bedside the other patient said ‘why don’t you just die’. This was wrong and not the words of a pleasant human being- especially when directed at a man only days away from death (thankfully the situation was promptly dealt with by the staff and the man’s cater /minder.)
But Dad not one to take things lying down, determined to make the man jealous and annoy him further, asked me to massage his feet whilst my sister massaged his scalp. “I want you to massage my feet so he can see. I want him to see. Bloody Idiot- you see, he will never get this kind of love and attention, miserable man-you see no one visits him.” I didn’t want to partake in this petulant point scoring but dad was not in the mood for my ‘mature and measured’ response- he meant business! My sister and I couldn’t help but laugh at him, seated on his hospital bed like a King on the throne, being attended to by his ‘servants’ all whilst transmitting the dirtiest looks known to mankind in the other man’s direction.
Dad’s facial expression: This captures my dad’s demeanour perfectly that day.
I miss sitting at dad’s feet and my godfather Brian’s swollen, porcelain feet whom I also had the privilege of massaging in the days before his death. They were oddly enough ‘happier” times.
Yet despite the natural sadness which comes with losing loved ones, I am assured and pleased that they have now entered His rest -literally putting their feet up in Heaven, having run the race well.
