One morning, I stepped out of bed and put my feet on the floor. Suddenly, a mean little man jumped out from under the bed and stabbed (,) an ice pick   through my left foot. Figuratively   speaking, yes. I took another step and he stabbed it again. This went on all day. Step, stab, scream. Over the next few days, I started limping  . My whole body hurt. Even my hair. I kept thinking that the little man would get tired of stabbing me and go pick on somebody else.We often take things for granted until we lose them or they start to hurt. My brother deals with pain every day. He's also blind and suffers from cerebral palsy  , needs a walker to walk, doesn't take much for granted. I had to wonder: What would he think about my foot? Finally, after a week of pain, I went to see a very nice foot doctor. The doctor studied my foot, took X-rays, shook his head, and said the little man's name: Arthur Itis, or Arthritis  . I knew it well. I'd often heard it hissed angrily by my grandparents and parents, all attacked by Arthur's ice pick when they got older. "Wait," I said. "Doesn't Arthur usually just pick on old people?" The doctor smiled, looking at my chart. "How old are you?" I gave him a look. "Never mind," I said. "Can you fix it?" "Well," he said, "we can try." He listed several options and I chose the injection  . It didn't hurt much. Not half as much as the ice pick. That was yesterday. This morning, I awoke, took a few careful steps and ... hallelujah!It hurt just a bit, but no ice pick. I looked under the bed. No sign of Arthur. Maybe he was hiding in the closet, waiting for another day.But for now, he was gone, and I was grateful.My mind began to race with plans to do all the things I'd been putting off for days:unpack, clean the house, wash my hair ... Then it hit me. Another stab. Not in my foot. In my heart. I remembered that I hadn't called my brother in a long time. It's easy to take some things for granted. But it should never be the people we love. Why didn't the author go to see the doctor for the first week?
Because she was afraid that her brother would laugh at her. Because she thought it was too cold to step out of her room. Because she expected that the pain would gradually disappear. Because she believed that she could endure the pain like her brother did.
Question: One morning, I stepped out of bed and put my feet on the floor. Suddenly, a mean little man jumped out from under the bed and stabbed (,) an ice pick   through my left foot. Figuratively   speaking, yes. I took another step and he stabbed it again. This went on all day. Step, stab, scream. Over the next few days, I started limping  . My whole body hurt. Even my hair. I kept thinking that the little man would get tired of stabbing me and go pick on somebody else.We often take things for granted until we lose them or they start to hurt. My brother deals with pain every day. He's also blind and suffers from cerebral palsy  , needs a walker to walk, doesn't take much for granted. I had to wonder: What would he think about my foot? Finally, after a week of pain, I went to see a very nice foot doctor. The doctor studied my foot, took X-rays, shook his head, and said the little man's name: Arthur Itis, or Arthritis  . I knew it well. I'd often heard it hissed angrily by my grandparents and parents, all attacked by Arthur's ice pick when they got older. "Wait," I said. "Doesn't Arthur usually just pick on old people?" The doctor smiled, looking at my chart. "How old are you?" I gave him a look. "Never mind," I said. "Can you fix it?" "Well," he said, "we can try." He listed several options and I chose the injection  . It didn't hurt much. Not half as much as the ice pick. That was yesterday. This morning, I awoke, took a few careful steps and ... hallelujah!It hurt just a bit, but no ice pick. I looked under the bed. No sign of Arthur. Maybe he was hiding in the closet, waiting for another day.But for now, he was gone, and I was grateful.My mind began to race with plans to do all the things I'd been putting off for days:unpack, clean the house, wash my hair ... Then it hit me. Another stab. Not in my foot. In my heart. I remembered that I hadn't called my brother in a long time. It's easy to take some things for granted. But it should never be the people we love. Why didn't the author go to see the doctor for the first week?
A. Because she was afraid that her brother would laugh at her.
B. Because she thought it was too cold to step out of her room.
C. Because she expected that the pain would gradually disappear.
D. Because she believed that she could endure the pain like her brother did.
Answer: