(Posted By CombatGirl)So, yesterday, I had minor foot surgery. Let me explain, because that sounds a little more dramatic than it actually was (as in, "Oh, my God, I had FOOT surgery yesterday. And now I'm just barely able to hobble
around.") Really, I'm fine. And the whole darn thing was my fault anyway, so I really can't complain (well, I could, because I can find a gripe with any given thing, but I guess I shouldn't complain. That's more precise.) See, I ended up wearing flip-flops quite a bit this summer. I had this one pair that were really cute, black, slight wedge, a flip-flop but not, because you could dress them up and they looked like real sandals -- so, I got by with wearing them to work, and no one said a thing. Unfortunately, they hurt like hell, and caused a big blister between my first and second toes, on my left foot (only. Not sure why my right foot wasn't affected, but who's to say, when it comes to feet? Various parts of my body that you'd think would be matching are, apparently, asymmetrical. Including the lobes of my brain, I think. But I digress.) So, slave to fashion that I am, I kept wearing the killer flip-flops, causing blister after callus after blister. Finally, a month or so ago, when the weather turned chilly and I grew tired of polishing my toenails for the season, I retired the flip-flops permanently. By that time, I'd developed a rather unattractive, seemingly permanent growth between my toes. Too much information? Well, here's more:
the growth began to hurt.
Hence, an appointment with my primary care physician seemed in order. The last time I saw her was about a year ago, and I'd forgotten that her particular gestalt is pretty much no small talk, just -- cut to the chase.
When I first met her, I was a little taken aback by her lack of Marcus Welby bedside manner, but quickly got over it because I realized a) she knew what she was doing, and b) if I'm handing over my physical well-being to someone else, I really don't want much from her other than validation that she knows what she's doing. After that little epiphany of mine, we've gotten along
swimmingly.
So, yesterday at the appointment, after I'd removed my left combat boot (they call me Combat Girl for a reason, you know) and sock, Dr. O. took a look at the affected digits -- of course prying them apart rather firmly, because that's her, although it hurt like blue blazes, causing me to curse Dr. O. to the heavens, despite the high esteem in which I hold her. And she looked. And looked.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"Don't know. Could be a callus, could be a wart. Or some kind of corn."
"Are my toes infected?"
"Nope. Doesn't look like it."
"But you don't know what that thing is."
"No," she said, still looking, and I got a little worried, because Dr. O.
always knows. If she didn't know, who would? An extremely expensive podiatrist not covered by my paltry employer insurance plan?
"So," I asked, rather tentatively, "what do you think we should do, then?"
"I think," she replied, looking me dead in the eye, "that we should chop it off, and then freeze it." She said it with such conviction, that's precisely what we did. Although they did at least numb the area first, which also hurt like blue blazes, but Dr. O. prepped me by telling me to grip the examining table before she injected the anesthetic. Such a peach, that one. I was a little worried that after the Lidocaine, or whatever, wore off I'd be shuffling around like Frankenstein, just in time for Halloween, but -- lo and behold -- my foot actually hurts LESS than it did pre-chopping and -freezing. So now I'm good as gold. Until the next pair of bad shoes, I guess.
But I'm starting to wonder. Dr. O. is such a good, minimalist, kamikaze doctor that she makes me feel as though the next time something like this happens, I should just suck it up, buy myself a big ol' bottle of vodka, take a few slugs, pour the rest over my foot to sterilize it, and perform
the surgery myself. I'd save a copay, anyway. We'll see.
