“Watch out for those stairs.”

My wife and her friend are telling me this. Going down some steps, I’m wearing the blue and white flat sandals forced on me by my lymphedema wraps around my feet and lower legs. They’re a little clumsy to walk in but after five days, I have the measure of them.

“Be careful,” they tell me, hovering around me like I’m a toddler taking their first steps.

“Watch the snow and ice,” they proclaim as I step outside. “There’s a clearer path over there.”

Their concern strikes me as condescending. I mean, they’re with me for ten minutes; what do they think I’m doing for the other twenty-three hours and fifty minutes of the day?

“Are you okay to drive?” one asks me.

I smile and nod. I mean, I drove over there. I’ve been driving every day with these things on several times per day. Really, their concern says more about them and their fears and worries than it says about me and my condition.