Deborah Anderson

In 2000, Deborah Anderson left the medical field to care for her elderly mother. Soon after, she began writing. She has written for Focus on the Family, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and numerous other publications. She is a member of TWV, ACFW, CWG, and FCW. Married 29 years, Deborah and her husband enjoy country living in the Midwest. She also spends her time rescuing cats, reading novels, and taking nature walks. Deborah recently completed her first novel. You can contact Deborah at:

Writing Pains - Part II

Last month, after having a mole removed from the bottom of my foot, I wrote about an epiphany I had regarding writing—that I am a die-hard writer. I thought the story would end with the last paragraph of that article, but it didn’t.

Goes to show what I get for thinking.

Two weeks after my writing, and still not able to walk, my husband took me back to the doctor to get my stitches removed. I assumed the problem was due to the thread pulling too tight against my skin.

I was wrong.

I clunked, clunked, clunked on Mom’s walker down the long, winding hallway toward the doctor’s office. As soon as I reached the door, I slid the walking device to my husband. “Get rid of this.”

“Deb, you need it to walk.”

“I don’t want them to think I’m a big baby or something.”

“How are you going to get in there?”

“On my toes.”

He eyed the walker. “What do you want me to do with it?”


“Take it back out to the truck.”

He shook his head. “You’re going to need this when you come out.”

I spied a wheelchair around the corner and pointed. “No, I won’t. I’ll use that.”

He disappeared with Mom’s walker.

I tip-toed up to the receptionist’s window, and she greeted me with a smile. “Hi, Deb.” Then she eyed me from head to toe—literally. “Are you still having trouble walking?”

Waving my hand, I made light of the situation. “I’m like the princess with the pea under her mattress. I guess the same thing applies to having stitches under my foot.”

She laughed.

Once inside the examining room, the nurse removed the little black thorns in my flesh. “The doctor will be in to look at you in a few minutes.”

The doctor came in and checked out my foot. “How long has this been red?”

“Just the past few days. I figured the stitches were pulling too tight.”

“No. It’s getting infected.”

I didn’t understand his comment. My incision looked great.

But it wasn’t my incision that had become infected. It was the holes where he put the stitches to begin with. Can you imagine?

I wanted to bang my head on the exam table.

A short while later, prescription for antibiotics in hand, I hobbled back through the waiting room. A middle-aged man who had been sitting there with an elderly woman when I first arrived spoke up. “There’s a wheelchair we brought out in the hall. You can borrow it.”

I didn’t tell him I’d planned to anyway.

Forcing a smile, I nodded. “Thank you so much. I appreciate your help.”

Walking on my toes, I made my way to the door.

When I returned home, I hoisted myself up the steps, back to my office, and plopped down in my trusty old rocker. I was exhausted, I tell you.

Later in the evening, tornado warnings flashed across the TV screen. I looked around the room. What could I take with me to the basement?

Nothing. I couldn’t even use the walker on the stairs.

I prayed. “Lord, I ask for a hedge of protection around this house—and all the surrounding property—in Jesus’ name.”

Less than thirty minutes later, the tornado sirens blared. My husband rushed into the room. “We have to get you downstairs, Deb.”

I eyed my laptop in front of me. “Here, take this.”

“No, Deb. We need to get going.”

I jabbed my finger in the air toward my desk. “Hurry, in the top drawer.”

He quickly pulled the drawer open. “What? What is it?” I think he thought I had a stash of cash in there or something.

“My memory sticks—in the front—grab them.”

I hopped on my toes, wincing in pain with each step. “The cats. I have to get the cats.”

It’s a good thing I was wounded already, or the man might have pushed me down the stairs, God love him.

We made our way to the main floor, along with the cats and memory sticks, but it still bugged me to leave my PC and laptop behind, not to mention all my books.

The tornadoes whirled around us but shifted in another direction.

Within a week, the same thing happened again. Seriously.

Once again, we followed the same routine, except this time I seized a book before I went downstairs. As before, the tornadoes danced a jig around us, but missed us altogether.

This past week, I returned to the doctor. Crawling onto my belly on the table, I hung my big feet over the bottom and waited with baited breath as he examined my foot.

“It’s healing nicely.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.

“But you still have a stitch in here. I hate to have to hurt you again.” He sounded a little too jovial to suit me.

After he removed the critter, I sat up on the table, and he smiled. “What do you have planned for this weekend?”

“Well, I guess I’ll keep writing. I have a novel I still need to polish.” I probably could have written another one with all the time sitting in my office this past month.

He smiled again. “You do know that’s what they have editors for.”

“Yes, but I’m anal. I have to polish my work before sending it to anyone, including my editor.”

“I want you back in a month, just to be sure everything’s okay.”

As of the last few days, I’m now walking again. Okay, not completely normal, but I’m off the walker.

Like I said last month, things can always get worse, so I’m not complaining. Venting, perhaps, but I know I have much to be thankful for in this old world.

Through all of this I found it funny that no matter what I did or where I went, the subject of writing still came up—through minor surgery, pain, infection, and even tornadoes.

Do you suppose God’s trying to tell me something?


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