Sunday, Bloody Sunday

About a week after my ingrown toenail was surgically removed, my other big toe began to get inflammed. I guess it was feeling left out, jealous from all of the attention that Mr. Right was getting. So I started my regimen of 20-minute foot soaks in the morning and evening, and applying Bacitracin in attempts to avoid the inevitable. When it got progressively worse, I called my clinic to make an appointment to get the stupid thing removed. The earliest I could get in was Tuesday afternoon, which was feasable last Thursday. But by Saturday, I was no longer able to wear shoes with socks because it hurt so bad. I was in tears every evening. How I was going to function at work barefoot in the snow started to become a real concern as Monday was quickly approaching.

"I just don't know what my options are," I said to Michael, as I sat on the stairs with the largest pair of shoes I had in hand.

"You could go to the ED," Michael said.

"No way," I protested. "How dumb is that. The ED is for people with seizures and people whose heads are split open. I am not going in for a toenail."

"The ED is also for everything else," Michael said. "Do what you gotta do."

I had to get it done. I knew I couldn't make it until Tuesday. So after church, we drove to the ER and checked in. After a predicted hour-and-a-half wait, understandable as I was there for a toenail, the doctor walked in. He mumbled his name as he grabbed my toe and sent me through the roof. With a frown he he continued to press, poke and prod, and I continued to wince and try to go to a happy place that seemed, at the time, very, very far away. I couldn't brush against this toe without yelling, and here he was squeezing.

"I have removed an ingrown toenail before," he said gruffly, "but it's very time-consuming, and it's been a long time since I've done it." He continued to frown at my swollen digit. "And I have some guy who came in with a light bulb that shattered in his eye, and someone else with a broken ankle, and then you came in."

Well, thank you, Mr. Asshole. As if I wasn't in enough pain, and as if I didn't feel guilty enough for coming in to the ED to have this done.

"I understand this is an ED," I said, "I expected to wait."

"I can give you something for the pain, and give you a referral to a podiatrist; or I can get this done today, but it's just that it takes so long."

Yes.....point taken. He offered me a Vicodin for the pain, which I was now more than happy to take due to his aggressive assessment. The Vicodin never came, but he did come back, just as Michael had stepped out to make a phone call. Oliver was in my arms as I lay on the guerney. The Dr. had several syringes in hand. and as strange as this sounds, I was relieved to see them. I just wanted this done already.

And done it was, without warning. Only after he took one of his syringes and plunged it into the base of my toe did he say, "a little poke, then pressure and ouch." This was much, much worse than last time. He used a different kind of novocaine, and about three times the amount as the last doctor had. I started to cry. "I know," he said, all of a sudden compassionate. "It hurts a lot, I know, I'm really sorry." The three very slow, painful injections felt like the needle was going to come through on the other side. I tried very hard not to hold Ollie too tight or kick the doctor's face in. I breathed deeply and patted Oliver gently. "The worst part is over," the doctor said, leaving for a while so that my toe could numb up. I wiped my tears away and thanked Oliver for taking such good care of me.

Michael walked in, and I showed him the injection sites:

About an hour later, the doctor returned for the procedure. At this point, Oliver was so extremely tired that he couldn't be cuddled, rocked, held, or left alone to nap for anything. He screamed and screamed and screamed. The doctor went to work, and at the first cut, we found that the numbing medication hadn't gone far enough. "How much ow?" he asked. After my response, he walked out and back in with a syringe of Novacaine, which he injected directly into the nerve, then continued his work. Michael leaned over my toe, and the doctor explained his procedure as I strained to hear through Oliver's screaming. Once everything was finished, Oliver stopped crying, and even started chuckling with some playful snuggling. I think he was just worried about me. What sweet boys I have. One to hold my hand, and one to cry for me.

Three hours after we walked in, I was wheeled out, with a gargantuan pressure dressing on my toe, a prescription for more antibiotics, some Percocet, and instructions for wound care.

Michael has just reminded me that I am due for more Percocet, which after a couple of very excrutiatingly painful hours, we have decided I will be taking on schedule. The irony is that I was planning to go Christmas shopping today. Christmas shopping on a weekend would drive anyone to need some Percocet. But now, sitting as still as I can with my foot propped and my eyelids heavy, I'm thinking that everyone on the Christmas list will be getting something purchased online this year. WARNING: IF YOU GET QUEASY WITH MEDIAL IMAGES, DO NOT SCROLL DOWN. If you are maybe queasy but still curious (and you know you are,) or don't really care one way or another, I have one more picture to share...

Now hand me my pills.