Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Gail Cushman
Toes. How much littler do you get than toes? We don’t pay much attention to them because they aren’t obvious, mostly covered up with socks and shoes and boots and all kinds of other foot gear, but when they go awry, man oh man, you gotta pay attention.
A couple months ago the Cowboy began limping and gimping and said his toe hurt. “Which toe?” I said, trying to be a caring wife. He had complained before, but never really admitted that it hurt.
“The little toe on my right foot,” says he. It’s a tiny toe to begin with and it doesn’t have anything to do with balance or beauty. It’s an appendage that God gave us so we could have five toes, instead of four. Five fingers, five toes. Good to go.
“Let’s have a look,” I said, and peeled off his sock. Uh oh, the little toe was straddling the next toe, and was all red and twisted and icky, but, I bucked up, “It’s not too bad,” I lied, “but let’s go to the doc and see what he says.” And we started the routine to find a podiatrist and get an appointment and off we went. It only took a couple days to get the appointment. Luck was on our side.
The doc sauntered into the exam room, and the conversation went something like this: “What’s up?” the doc said, “I gotta bad toe,” Cowboy said to which the doc said, “No problem, let’s cut it off.”
I chimed in, “I thought they didn’t do that anymore.”
The doc smiled, “I cut one off today, it’s no big deal.”
Cowboy said, “Okay, let’s do it.” There you go, a quick decision. We got an appointment and went back and Snip-Snip and Stitch-Stitch. It was gone. Just like that, I’m married to a nine-toed cowboy.
When we left the office, the doc said, “Two weeks, Cowboy, you gotta stay in your recliner for two weeks, with your leg above your heart. Otherwise, I might have to whittle you down some more. Your choice.”
What the doc didn’t realize is that Cowboy is OCD and has a love affair with the multiple birds that pick and peck at our bird feeder. Despite my best efforts, he crept outside every morning to feed the birds. It didn’t help his feet, he said the snow felt good, and the birds were happy and chirped all day, per usual.
On the way home, he told me an expanded story from Jack London tracking a 3-toed Grizzly across hill and dale. Although I’m not sure it’s true, he was happy. Maybe a 9-toed Cowboy and a 3-toed Griz are in the same category of toughness and he felt grizzly karma. I’m not sure and I don’t know about the 3- toed Griz, but having a 9-toed Cowboy strapped to a recliner for 14 days is more than this Marine can handle.
Two weeks passed and we went back for a recheck, and the doc says, “Whoooa, you’ve got an angry toe.” Well, angry it might be, but I don’t see how an amputated toe can be angry. The doc added antibiotics, probiotics, pain pills, bandages, gauze, iodine, tape, ice and a bunch of other mish-mash. “Put your foot in the air and don’t wiggle it. And by the way, you can’t go anywhere that involves walking or hiking. No getting the Christmas tree from the forest, marshmallow roasts with the great-grandsons, and no Jacuzzis. No tractors, snow plowing, or dancing. And no cruises. Dang. What’s this world coming to?
So here comes Thanksgiving. Our daughter is an RN and said, “Let me check to see why it’s angry.” So, she unwrapped the seven-yards of Ace Bandage, saying, “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ve done this before.” Before long she inspected and treated his wound, “Yep it is angry,” and she used a bunch of words that meant, sit down and shut up. I repeated my earlier thought, “How can a toe be angry if it is missing.” She gave me a look that mothers understand and I shut up.
Cowboy is riding a recliner, I am sick of football, our cruise is off, and it is time to check if the good whiskey I bought for a Christmas present for my son is any good. As Mark Twain says, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.” Amen.
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