The Continuing Saga of the Thunder-toe

Now that the blizzard has come and gone, the snow plow boy has hit the garage and the Dunkin' Donuts in our area are still closed, I can finish my toe-tally en-gross-ing toe/foot story.  (For those of you who "follow" me on Book de la Face," I apologize for the repeat. I promise this will still be entertaining.  Or, not.  I entertain myself.  I'm never sure about any of you.)

Here's a picture of my toe at Blue Eye's 50th birthday party last night.  My toe knows how to party....and, how to eat cake.  If you have to have ugly feet, you might as well enjoy them.  I demonstrated my toe prowess by enjoying a piece of cake.  I guess you could call this Toe Jam.  My toe was jamming!

So, the toe, the wife and I FINALLY found a walk-in/urgent care/not-so-convenient care center open during the blizzard.  It wasn't easy.  The wife hunkered down in the far corner of the waiting room--and, I do mean far corner--she wasn't near all those people hacking furballs and sporting fevers--while I waddled in to the exam room.  They got me in really quick, so I was impressed.

That was the absolute last moment I was impressed during the remainder of my medical interaction.

The nurse asks why I have come to the clinic today.  I take off my sock and point to my foot, which is black and blue and swollen and ugly.  It's pretty easy to see why I am there.  She asks what I kicked, dropped, hit.  I explain that this is a "eating dinner at the kitchen table unsolved mystery" non-injury.  She gives me an "uh huh" look (like, SURE you didn't do anything to it!), takes my vitals, tells me my blood pressure is higher due to my pain level (of which I have not once mentioned), insults me ("No more periods at the age, right?") and assures me the doctor will be right in.  Me and the toe sit on the table and await for assured medical diagnosis and advice, to contemplate the meaning of the nurse assuming that I am of such an advanced age that my eggs where no longer shooting out of my very beloved ovaries. 

Those eggs are shooting out of there like clockwork, people!  I'll give you a slap of perimenopausal PMS, lady.  THEN you'll know I am still young and able to bear the fruit of my womb if I should so chose.

The doctor zips in--a bearded fellow about 12 years old--seats himself at the computer and starts typing, muttering aloud everything he is typing along the way. Dr. Bearded reads this and that, asks a few medical history questions, repeats my answers aloud as he types.  He FINALLY decides he should actually look at me and inquire specifically why I am there.  Again, I point at my foot, as it's pretty much a no-brainer. 

"How did you injure this?" he asks.

"I'm not sure I did," I answer.

I then have to tell the story of how I was at the kitchen table eating dinner when this spontaneously happened.  He stands up, walks over to my foot and again asks, "How did you injure this?"

Oh boy. 

Un-gloved (yuck!), he touches my pinkie toe.  I assure him everything moves just fine and wiggle all the piggies for good measure.  He wiggles Mr. Pinkie and asks me if I am sure I didn't drop something on my foot or kick something.  He walks away and starts typing again.

Hello! You just touched my gross toes with your un-gloved hands and now you are typing on the community keyboard! BLECH!

Dr. Bearded indicates I need an x-ray as he has no idea what this is or what could have possibly have happened.  Incredibly, I am zipped away to the lab, have three x-rays and am back in an exam room in minutes.  It was almost amazing how fast everything went.  Maybe they had had enough and just wanted to go home.  Maybe they were excited to see something else besides a flu or cold case.  Maybe they just wanted me and my ugly foot outta there.  Whatever--things just zipped along.

Dr. Bearded is back in a matter of minutes.  I didn't even know you could develop x-rays that fast.  "Well, it's not broken," he announces.  I chew on this--that's good and bad.  If something were broken, that would solve the mystery.  Not being broken is awesome, but I still don't know anything more than I did when I walked in the door.  Since he's not offering any ideas, I ask, "it's not gout or cellulitis, is it?"  He gives me a quizzical look and then says, "no--not gout or cellulitis."  Okay, that's good.  "Perhaps a bruised Tailor Bunion?" I offer.  He again looks at me like he had never thought of that.  I'm thinking he has no idea what to do with that idea.  Never mind.  I decide to shut up and go home.

He then--and I swear this is absolutely true and a totally direct quote--says, "This is strange.  I don't know."

THAT becomes my diagnosis.  "I don't know."

I ask what I should do.  "Put ice on it."  He pauses and then says, "No, put heat on it."  He pauses and looks like he is not sure which I should do.  "Whatever feels best."

I guess when you don't know what something is, it's better to put it back on the patient so you don't turn out to be wrong.

He then adds--again I swear this is what happened--"You must have hurt it when going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and just don't remember it."

Huh??? What the hell is that kind of statement? Why would anyone say something like that?  Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and not remembering an injury?  An injury that spontaneously surfaced during dinner the next day?????? 

It is at this point that I realize I have completely and totally wasted my time. 

I waddle out to the waiting room, tell the wife my diagnosis is "This is strange, I don't know," and wait for her reply. 

"THIS IS WHY I DON'T GO TO DOCTORS," she scowls.  She stands up as best she can (she's still got the horrible sciatica thing going on--and, no she hasn't gone to see a doctor) and says, "that's why I search the Internet for answers."  She then limps toward the door, leaving me to chuckle in the waiting room.  "Oh, yeah--he said he thinks it's because I kicked something in the middle of the night when going to the bathroom and just don't remember."

She shakes her head in complete and total disgust, then throws herself out into the blizzard. 

And, so dear readers, it's your turn.  Feel free to make a diagnosis.  Heck, make two.  It's not like you can do any worse.  I'm thinking it is a bunion/bursa/blood vessel gone wrong, somehow injured (in the middle of the night when going to the bathroom???) but not surfacing until later in the night, as if spontaneously.  How something can be totally normal and unbruised and not swollen one minute and then magically have all those things within an hour--during dinner--is beyond me.

Until then, my foot and I are gonna have a great time.  No sense sitting around.  We went partying last night and it was fun.  The toe was a big hit, had its own paparazzi.  It danced, it ate cake, it waved hello to all its fans.  Sure, it was more swollen after all that, but it's worth it.  If you are going to have a mystery foot, you must enjoy it.  Tonight, we'll go out to dinner tonight. 

I promise to keep my foot off the table.

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