My mother, Nurse Vivian, was Irish but lived in the Pennsylvania Dutch part of the Appalachians. There, she gathered pithy phrases for every occasion.

Some I understood at the time, like “the apple don’t fall far from the tree.” Some I never understood: “Layo for meddlers.” And others I only understood years later: “I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.”

When we had to send our son Zane to Texas, I bought a carton of Saint Jude candles, and we kept one lit in the porch window so that he could find his way home. I wrote a column about that candle — and dozens, if not hundreds, of readers also lit a taper. I like to think that as they whispered their prayers, the match sparked the wick and they ended their message with, “I do believe in the Fisher-Paulsons.”

I don’t know if it was fairy dust or the enduring power of the patron saint of the impossible, but two years later, when Zane returned from all his journeys across the desert and over the mountains, he saw that candle when he walked in the door, high school diploma in hand.

There was one candle left in the box, and I imagined that Jude Thaddeus was saving a little bit of miracle for our next crisis. Which came two weeks later.

I was standing outside of City Hall when my phone rang. It was Papa (my husband Brian), who said: “Can you take me to the hospital tomorrow? The doctor wants to look at my foot.”

On Friday, June 25, we went to the UCSF Parnassus Campus. An ultrasound revealed a blockage in his leg, cutting off the flow of blood to his foot. So, before they addressed his foot, they needed to look at his legs — and on top of that his electrolytes were off.

At midnight that Sunday they performed an angioplasty, leading to another angioplasty Tuesday morning. By this time, Sister Lil and the Ursulines; Sister Mary Virginia and the Dominicans; and Sister Marilyn and the Sisters of Mercy all offered up novenas. It was a convent-tion(ITALICIZE) of sorts. Saint Jude candles lit from one end of the state to the other.

One of our friends, Mrs. E., even prayed to Saint Servatius, patron saint of feet.

The cardiovascular surgeon was positive after the procedures. But then Doctor Martrano, the lead on the podiatrist team, stated simply, “We’ve done everything we can, but for Friday we have scheduled the amputation.”

Best case scenario they'd have to take his big toe. Worst case scenario? The better part of his foot.

Brian took it in … stride: “At least it’s not the whole leg.” But not me. This was not a moment of grace. This was a moment of anger.

For an average Joe, the loss of a toe would be painful. The Amputee Coalition states that 185,000 amputations occur each year in the United States. Each of them is a tragedy. But Brian based his entire career on his feet. He has can-canned on Broadway, tap danced for the President of the United States, and for 40 years has pointed that big toe. I cannot imagine the universe being crueler.

I was mad when we lost the triplets. And mad again when Zane had to go away. I didn’t get the miracle I wanted, and resented whatever intervening deity there might be for ignoring me.

But to mis-quote Mick Jagger: "Don’t pray for what you want. Pray for what you need." I miss the point if I’m praying for the miracle, wishing for a dactyl that is already gone.

By the time this column is in print, Brian will likely have nineteen digits. And that will have to be enough.

The night of Tuesday, June 29, I lit a candle. I’m not asking for a hallux. I’m asking for wisdom. And acceptance. And as I did I whispered, “I do believe in the Fishe