No, I was not a participant of some deviant S&M act, nor was I captured and tortured.
I had an ingrown toenail.
Let's start with a little backstory, shall we?
A little over a year ago, in the wonderland that is my house, I slammed my foot into a wall. No, I didn't trip over anything, nor was I pushed into it. I just simply managed to hurl my foot into a wall like I was kicking a football.
I never claimed to be graceful.
So, after muttering a few choice words and rocking back and forth on the floor holding my poor abused foot and whispering 'it'll be alright' a few hundred dozen times, I picked myself up and went to work. Sure, my foot throbbed all day.
But hey, it was just a broken toe. I figured I could deal with it.
But that broken toe left me a little present. Yep, that's right - it's the gift that keeps on giving - an ingrown toenail.
At first it was just an itch. A minor inconvenience. And then that itch grew into a small pain.
And guess what world? I refused to go to the doctor for it. Absolutely refused. I didn't need to see a doctor. I could just clip it myself!
Er...wrong. So very wrong. And painful. I went on for a little over a year like that, performing little "mini-surguries" in the bathroom late at night lest the other occupants of my house hear my muffled screams of pain.
And every night I did that, I'd swear that I was going to call the doctor. And every morning after, I intentionally ignored my pleas from the night before and adamantly pushed forward in my work, week after week and month after month.
Which leads me to now. I finally couldn't take it any more and (with a little prodding from Pookie...with a cattle prod called "mother") decided to go and see the podiatrist.
I went into his office, fully expecting a little old man who had a shiny bald spot, greying hair, and maybe even a bit of an accent - german, perhaps? The waiting room only furthered my stereotype - magazines such as National Geographic, Better Homes and Gardens, Time - they all lined the walls and every available flat surface. Elevator music played in the background.
I was led from the waiting room to a small (and frighteningly sterile) room with two chairs - the patient's, and the doctor's. His assistant recoiled slightly when I showed her my now-infected and horribly disfigured toe. She gave me a grimace, and said the doctor would be right in. After several games of Bejeweled on my phone, he walked in.
Oh was I ever wrong. World, he was a hunk. He looked like he could have just walked off the set of Baywatch, or better yet, some sort of soap opera.
My mouth may have dropped open a bit. The Hoff had nothing on him. His pecs were somehow clearly outlined, even beneath his
He glanced at my toe, nodded his head, and said "Yep. It's an ingrown toenail." Well. No shit. His next words halted my mental criticism.
"Well, just give me a sec to grab the needle for the shot - I'm going to have to stick you twice to numb you. Then I'll fix it." Er. WHAT?
No second visit? I had been under the impression that this was simply a consultation! Oh no, Mr. Achiever had decided to just yoink the troublesome nail right out.
Well. I'm nothing if not flexible, so I shakily nodded my agreement. Dr. Sadistic came back in with what was a ridiculously oversized needle for a toe - maybe he was compensating?
He stuck me. Twice. I got that part - he had to block the nerve. That's not what my problem was.
My problem came about thirty minutes later - when I was supposedly "numb." Halfway through when he was cutting away at the one side of my nail (because hey, I can't have a normal ingrown toenail - both sides were ingrown! Fun for all!), I felt a pressure.
And then the pain-fest began. I said to Dr. Sadistic "OW!?" and he stopped. And was all "Oh, so sorry, guess you're not totally numb yet! I'll massage it and that should take care of it."
It didn't. But I didn't have time to tell him that before he took his
Next thing I know, he was holding up about half an inch of bloody nail. With a nice big hunk of flesh still attached. Yum.
And then he repeated the process with the other side - that one wound up being about a quarter-inch.
He smiled, and gave me some instructions - keep it clean, soak it twice daily, etc.
He walked out, and I struggled to put my shoe back on.
As I sat at the counter and listened to the receptionist blather on (why can't they ever just get to the point?), I began to notice that my vision was darkening around the edges.
Oh joy. I decided to put my foot down (pun intended) and refuse to pass out. So I sat outside in the crisp autumn breeze, and called Pookie up and chatted with him until I felt better. He was (understandably) freaked out and was about to hop in his car and pick me up - but to hell with that. I drove myself there, I can damn well get myself home. No stupid toenail was going to get the best of me.
Getting home occured without incident, and I was suitably pampered.
Which leads me to now. I'm soaking my foot in a bowl of once-warm and now-cold bloody water that's got epsom salt in it, contemplating.
I should have just gone to the damn doctor that fateful day when I slammed my foot into the wall.
Ah. Ce la vie.