The last time I wrote about my great toe was way back in February 2013, long before I had this site. Then, I mostly wrote about whatever my day involved, and you, lucky readers, got to ride along. Now I know a few of you steadfast warriors made the jump with me from Heptadecagon, and for that, I’m so grateful. The question is, Did you ever wonder what happened to my great toe?

I’m here to tell you. But before we do that, let’s review the facts.

The great toe on my right foot had experienced too many years of trauma. My kids repeatedly stepped on it, the dog (who weighed between sixty and seventy pounds) repeatedly stepped on it, and I repeatedly dropped cans on it. Yes, for whatever foul reason, my great toe attracted injury the way Bella attracted Edward: obsessively and for no reason. The repeated injuries, of course, prompted a visit to the podiatrist. Said podiatrist DID NOT take off the nail, which would have been the best option, in my opinion. No, instead he lifted the skin a little, assured me it would not hurt, and promptly hurt me while taking off half of the nail.

Friends, I do not throw the term “trauma” around lightly. I used it above, and I will use it again now because that visit traumatized me. The pain was so great—so great—that I refused to go back to the podiatrist even though the nails on both my right and left great toes eventually needed medical attention.

Why did my toes need help? Those repeated injuries led to layer upon layer of new nail growth that never finished its journey across the nail beds. My toenails were awful to look at and even worse, they required constant maintenance so that nothing grew into the skin. But they did grow into the skin, and no amount of stuffing cotton under the nail or soaking the nails in Epsom salts helped. Often at night the medial sides of my great toes throbbed, and I’d say to myself, You really should find a new podiatrist.

And yet . . .

Let me remind you that it is now October 2024, over twelve years since this saga first began.

So what prompted me to face my fears? One day, I scared my writing friends by showing them my toes. We were sitting in a local Starbucks, and I just whipped off my shoes and socks and revealed my awful toes. In fact, one friend said, “You know how you think that it’s not nearly as bad as someone says it is going to be? Well, your toes are worse. I could not have imagined worse.” I love this friend, by the way, and her response did nothing but strengthen our friendship since we both value authenticity.

So the quest began to find a different podiatrist. You don’t need all the details, but I am a homebody, so I checked the reviews of all the offices close to me (which around here means within a five-minute drive). None of them looked good. I asked my GP for a recommendation. He didn’t have one but reported that “a few patients have had good luck with X.” I looked them up—no luck. Horrible reviews, which forced me to I expand my search. Though it took a bit of digging, I found a podiatrist about thirty minutes away who looked both kind and knowledgeable in her online picture. Better yet, she had five-star reviews! The icing on the cake? She and I were born in the same small Illinois city. Eureka! That had to mean something, didn’t it?

As it goes with healthcare today, I made an appointment but had to wait to be seen.

Well, friends, the wait was worth it.

Yesterday, I drove through traffic—when is Ohio not in construction season? The answer is never—arrived early, and patiently worked on my Chromebook while waiting my turn. I chuckled at the elderly man who entered, checked in with the receptionist, asked to use the restroom, and then turned toward his companion and said, “I think I might have that bowel movement I’ve been waiting for.” That’s it, I thought. If this man is going to have the long-awaited bowel movement, it must be a good sign for me.

And it was.

Dr. S. was engaging and funny. She looked at my toes, asked me what I wanted, and said she could take off both nails.

“Now? Today?” I asked.

“Right now!” she said.

“Will it hurt?” I said.

“No! I’ll numb you up!” she replied.

(Please know that the use of the exclamation point is accurate—that’s just how she speaks. And no, it’s not annoying. Somehow, it is refreshing.)

So Dr. S. pulled out the needles, and I closed my eyes. The only part that stung was the injection. Well, injections, plural—she added so much to my toes I still didn’t have all the feeling back this morning. As she slid her pointed instrument under the nail bed, we chatted away. I felt some tugging, but that was about it. And soon, both of my nails were gone, and my toes were wrapped in cute pink gauze.

Friends, let me tell you, the first thing I did was smile, and then I said, “You’ve just made my day.” Dr. S. returned the smile, handed me a paper with post-op instructions, and told me to schedule a folllow-up appointment for about a week out.

My hope is that this is the final installment of Saga of the Great Toe, but if something wonky occurs next week, I’ll be sure to fill you in.

And by the way, I didn’t post a picture of the unwrapped toes because I didn’t want to scar (or scare) anyone on a Friday. If you’re interested in seeing them, just DM me, and I’ll share the pic!

Many thanks to Dr. S. and her crew. Many thanks to the man who gave me a good laugh in the office. Many thanks to the universe for giving me the courage to finally do something about my situation. (There’s a lesson there, right?)

Top Image of feet by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay.com. Bottom image provided by the author.