Half Life – 16 – toe-day
February 12th, 2021
Tugging, straining, cutting, and pulling, it finally came away. Worthy of the best cold war spy movie torture scene, the burly woman skilfully yanked the toenail out of my left big toe. Had it not been for the anaesthetic I think I would have spilled all the beans, revealed every state secret I knew, and made up a few more for good measure. Even with the numbing, it hurt, but nothing like how much it hurt once the injections had worn off. Luckily, Nobby has ensured there is an enormous stock of morphine and other assorted painkillers to choose from. Pushing the paracetamol to one side I reached for the strong stuff and liberally dosed myself. No more will the curling demon of mutated keratin, a side-effect from the last chemo, drive itself into my flesh. In true Bear Hunt style, it had chosen not to go over or round my toe, but through it. All attempts to divert its course having failed, the only option was ejection from the happy family that makes up my left foot. Toe-day had been long coming and, although not a little dreaded, welcomed. This ten-pence sized monster, bent like a hand-cut crisp, had been ruling my life for months, dictating treatment schedules and generally causing misery. Not least for The Wife, who hates feet, and whose role as chief toenail cleaner and bandager was not, I am sure, what she had thought would be part of the deal when she took me on. In a rare moment of sensible decision making, I chose to turn down the opportunity to bring the deformed and bloodied nail home as a present for her.
Toe-day was quickly followed by jab-day. Continuing with its view that I’m extremely vulnerable, the government summoned me to a small country health centre some miles from The Village to join a long queue of geriatrics with an interesting array of bodily odours. They may have been sterilising their hands like crazy, but it wasn’t those parts that needed a clean. A majority struggled with the idea that masks should cover both mouth and nose and, clearly from the pre-metric generation and despite copious floor markings, could not grasp the idea of two metres. The process was quick and efficient, although I didn’t miss the deep irony that the greatest risk of getting Covid I’ve been in came from the process of getting the vaccine. As I drove away, I felt I might have worked out one of the reasons why so many elderly people had been catching it.
Like a white van, the NHS has two speeds. Completely stopped, usually somewhere annoying and inconvenient, or full rocket speed ahead regardless of traffic, pedestrians and good sense. Accidents are avoided through luck and everyone else taking evasive action. After weeks of nothing, emails and calls not being returned, and a creeping sense of paranoia that I had, somehow, made it onto a blacklist of problem patients, it leapt into action. So much so that appointments the week after toe-day started flooding in and overlapping. The dash between appointments had to be carefully timed but with a fair wind, not too much snow, and a bit of white van driving, it was going to be possible.
Then, the toenail had its revenge. Colluding with Nobby to trip me up at every step, what was meant to be a rapid dressing change between an injection and a treatment turned into a visit to A&E. All the way up the leg above the toe the rash was blistering, red and raw. Something was wrong, very wrong. Of all the things you don’t want to be when going into hospital is complex, serious, urgent, and an interesting case. Ticking all those boxes, my reward was the opportunity to drop my trousers for six different doctors in the space of two hours as they prodded, poked, and discussed what might be wrong. Not even in my best moments at University did I manage trouser dropping statistics like that, where perhaps I achieved six in a month if I was lucky. Sadly, and unlike University, interest from the doctors stopped halfway up the left thigh. A least two of the doctors were honest enough to tell me they only wanted to look at it as it was part of what they were studying at the time and cases like mine are rare. Flattery works so I was happy to oblige.
Feeling fine, but with a moonscape for a leg, I was pumped with antibiotics and moved to a ward full of people in very much worse situations than I was. After a short time, and some unconstructive discussions with nurses who failed to understand either what I needed or wanted, the consultant changed the plan and agreed I could go home. By this point, the chaos of the NHS, with its constant plan switching, had meant the eternally patient Wife had driven too and from the Hospital five times, misled by false starts and unnecessary missions. All the other appointments for the week, so carefully planned and set up, had been cancelled. Together with the diseased leg, and a gloating, vindictive, toe, I finally clambered into the car and headed home, eight hours after going for a bandage change.
Tucked up in my own bed, with a cup of tea and the radio on, I was treated to programme about living with cancer. Changing over to listen to reports about England destroying India at cricket, I looked down at my own set of stumps at the end of my leg, one of them minus its cricket-bail and swathed in white, which had been the cause of the day’s confusion. JJ the dog joined me briefly, and I chatted to her about whether England should or should not declare early to give the best chance of winning as she snuffled about. She’s not allowed on furniture or the beds, but I have developed a bad habit of letting up to say hello every now and again when no one is looking. Our time in bed together discussing the cricket was cut short as I had to push her off when her interest in the toe prompted her try to lick it better, just after she’d been showing off her flexibility by cleaning parts of her body we use paper for. The whole tribe headed upstairs to join us in search of their own beds and sleep; an exhausted family all under one roof again. Nothing beats being at home after a day in hospital.
So funny! Partic the uni refs! The last line is wonderful x
Another great post Charlie. Toe-curling (sorry!) Brought back horrible teenage memories of in-growing toenails and my genius GP's recommendation that I should have both big toenails removed at the same time. The pain was unbearable. Makes me shudder just to think about it. One thing you haven't lost is your sense of humour. Keep it coming!