Anne Bradstreet Meets Frances Hodgson Burnett

My doctor called, on his day off, to ask about my foot, and in the course of the conversation, he mentioned an X-ray and possible bone chip affecting a ligament. When I reminded him of my misshapen feet (think Buster Browns with metal insteps) and told him about the now knobby protuberances lumping up around the toe joints, he added "It might be gout," and we made another appointment.

Gout?

I remembered this from Anne Bradstreet, "The knotty Gout doth sadly torture me." Well, that sounds about right.

And then my brother put a humorously positive spin on the possibility with this, "Oh, my: the possibility of gout. How aristocratic. Grandmother would be so pleased. I learned about gout when you were in your mother's womb. That's the truth. She read aloud to D and me, and she read us Little Lord Fauntleroy. The churlish old duke, Little Lord Fauntleroy's grandfather who didn't approve of the child's mother, named Dearest, had gout, and I still remember the Edwardian book illustrations showing him sitting by the fire with his foot on a gout stool. I hope you do *not* have gout. It's an unfriendly disease and a whole string of Medicis actually died of it in the 15th century. Do tell."

A few minutes later, he sent this photograph of the very book he remembers hearing read aloud.

Died? My quick Google search indicates there are modern treatments now.

We shall see. The mystery deepens, along with the bruising.