Every morning started with a fight. I'd sit on the edge of my bed,
compression socks in hand, already dreading what came next.
Getting them on took fifteen minutes of pulling, struggling, and
sometimes asking my husband Frank for help.
At 67, losing that independence stung more than I expected. And with
the reduced sensation in my feet from diabetic neuropathy, I couldn't always tell if I was putting
them on correctly.
I had to rely on sight alone, which made it even harder. Once I
finally wrestled them on, the real problems began.
By mid-morning, they'd start their slow descent down my calves. I'd
have to pull them back up constantly. By afternoon, they'd rolled down again, bunching
uncomfortably around my ankles.
The elastic band at the top cut into my skin like a tourniquet. Every
evening, I'd pull them off to find angry red marks circling my legs – sometimes they'd last until
the next morning.
With diabetes, any skin irritation terrified me. My doctor had warned
me repeatedly about how slowly diabetics heal, how any break in the skin could become
infected.
Frank would wince when he saw them. "There has to be a better
option," he'd say. "You can't keep doing this to your skin."
I thought so too. But after trying dozens of brands over eight years,
I'd accepted this was just my reality.
Managing my diabetes means paying extra attention to my legs, so if I
wanted the added comfort and support of compression, this was the price.
