A year into my son’s aggressive chemo regimen, he started to look less like a college boy and more like a nursing home candidate. His hips didn’t work right. His knees didn’t work right. His feet didn’t work right. He was falling apart faster than a hundred-year-old man. After he fell three times in a week, his physical therapist suggested better shoes. Really good shoes. The kind that require an actual fitting and a store that doesn’t start with “Wal” and end with “Mart.” We drove to the closest specialty shoe store, hoping new shoes would be an easy fix for yet another debilitating side-effect of constant chemo…READ THE REST…