Important Facts Toe Know

Did you know that our big toes carry about half of our body weight when we walk and run? Did you know that standing is difficult with an injured big toe?

I didn’t know either. In fact I never gave big toes any thought; barely noticed them in fact, until The Night of the Toe two weeks ago.

It was at the office Christmas party; I was walking away from the bar with a drink in my hand when I bumped into someone who was on his way there. By the way, that ‘someone’ plays rugby i.e. is built like an ox and is trained to tackle similarly built men to the ground.

“Oops” he said, when his large booted foot made contact with my exposed right foot in its red high-heeled slipper. “Sorry”

“No probs” I smiled and continued on my way, realizing a few seconds later that my right slipper felt a bit wet - did I spill a bit of my drink on my foot? - I wondered.….then my right foot felt warm. I suddenly found I couldn’t stand on it so I limped over to a seat in the corner with this awful pain shooting up my leg, wondering what the hell was going on.

When I checked in the dim light I found out that the guy in boots had accidentally ripped my toenail off. The toenail was clean off the nail bed and hung to one side like it was undecided (should I stay or should I go?) It was bright red with blood and nail polish and hurt like hell. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh. Has that happened to you before, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time?? Weird.

I asked for a brandy which I drained. It numbed the pain but I ended up plastered and had a couple of ‘unrestrained’ conversations with some higher ups including the guy who’d shattered my poor toe nail and just happened to be my boss’s boss’s boss (i.e. my great-grand boss)

I hunted him down on the dance floor and slurred “you fucking stepped on my fucking toe you fucking kiwi” but he was a good sport, probably because he was in a party mood and had had a couple of drinks himself. He apologized again. I smiled and we posed for photos.

I danced a bit (the DJ was fantastic!) then found another big cahuna to insult.

“I think people who read Kafka are fucking pretentious” I yelled above the loud music to someone I really shouldn’t have been talking to in that state, “who the hell is Kafka anyways? Big deal”

This person is my great-great-grand boss and apparently likes to read Kafka. Ooh boy.

Did you know that when you’re drunk at the office party you’re more likely to insult a superior than a subordinate? I didn’t know either until The Night of the Toe.

The night went by quickly; I danced til 3am after a colleague dressed my toe with stuff from the first aid box in his car. I was deliciously drunk, felt no pain and like I said the music was great.

At about 5am the pain returned. *aargh!*

I called my doctor, grunted out my story then counted the minutes until the 10 am appointment he gave me.

The toenail was hanging by a string of skin and I wanted it taken out completely but the doctor said no, let it fall off itself.

I disagreed because I felt that with the nail off I could enjoy a fresh start, a new nail and a new life, a clean slate, a shot at a new beginning…none of this poetic justification worked with the doctor and all I got were tetanus shots, a new dressing and a pile of antibiotics.

That weekend I slept with my right foot hanging over the side of the bed.

The following week I limped and shuffled around home and work in flat slippers - no heels! I went from being 5ft 7 to 5ft 4.5 overnight.

My ever helpful sis even offered me coloured plasters to match my outfits, but I turned them down in favour of the traditional neutral colour. I may have been injured but there was no need to be garish about it.

After seven days my toe was healing nicely, after an initial stage that was extremely disgusting and required frequent bandage changes. The nail reunited with the nail bed (they worked things out in private) it looked like all was well and I started walking around at home without a dressing on the toe.

Then I stubbed my toe against my bedroom door *aargh!*

And twice on the UPS under my desk at work *aargh!* who put that effing thing under my desk?

Then against the kitchen cabinet *aargh!* and in the car *oh my God!*

Did you know that when you have an injured toe, hard objects will deliberately place themselves in your way? Did you know that if that doesn’t work these hard objects (e.g. doors) will go as far as to ‘bump’ into your poor bandaged toe then sit there looking innocent? I didn’t know either, until…

All these minor accidents happened so many times that they interrupted the healing process and my toe looked damaged. I sighed and went back to bandaging it up.

Then…unbelievably, at another party three nights ago I stubbed my toe AGAIN, this time against a slab of concrete and almost passed out from shock:

'zahrahowcarelesscanyoubeyouaresoclumsyyou’regoingtoendupwithoutafootatthisrate'I thought in a rush.

Now two weeks later the poor toe looks mangled and far worse than on the night of the accident. I give up and now realise that as I am no longer perfect (heh heh) I cannot in all fairness demand perfection from a potential partner, therefore I am revising my personal ad to read:

Single young female, fun, flirty, playful, seeks man with similar qualities, big toes optional…

PS: I am not placing a personal ad, so any interested nine-toed men out there please note that it was a joke!

The Resistance

Yesterday I fought a good fight.

I was outnumbered, overpowered and underdressed but still I fought determinedly.

It was 10am on Saturday, at a clinic where I was booked for a gastroscopy a.k.a endoscopy a.k.a examination of the stomach via a tube with a camera at the end.

The procedure seemed like a good idea at the time my doctor proposed it; I’d been having tummy trouble for a while and - worried that everyone at home and work was beginning to think I was a hypochondriac - felt it was important to investigate the matter once and for all. Plus I’ve become seriously paranoid about my health after the Pancreas Episode.

However, when it was time for the doctor to stick the tube down my throat I found myself wrestling with him and the nurse. I twisted the nurse’s hand away with one hand, shoved the tube away with the other and struggled into an upright position, gasping, coughing, choking, crying, angry.

I hopped off the operating table and tried to escape in my green backless surgical gown but they grabbed me before I could make it out of the room and down the street (with the green gown flapping in the harmattan wind.)

I didn’t like the way I was so aware of what was going on and asked for more sedative.

“I want you to be conscious enough to see the inside of your stomach on the screen” the doctor said excitedly. “The colours are so vivid; the yellows and reds and…”

Er, that’s enough doc, I really don’t want to see or feel anything.

I refused to lie down until they gave me more sedative. They refused to give me more sedative until I lay down. Negotiations were deadlocked and no one wanted to back down.

“What is all this?” the doctor asked in exasperation, “You’ve done this procedure several times before”

“Yes, but back then I was seriously ill and desperate for a solution. Now I’m relatively healthy and I object to having tubes down my throat”

“But you have to do it. We’re all here now, we can’t go home”

I offered to pay for the procedure and the inconvenience if we could agree not to go ahead with it but the doc refused. “We need to know what’s wrong.”

“Fine, but I don’t want to be aware of what you’re doing while you’re finding out what’s wrong.”

“But I’m not going to put you under general anaesthesia for a minor procedure like this.”

“Fine, then give me more sedative.”

“Fine, then lie down.”

I lay down cautiously but refused to put the plastic mouth guard back in until they injected more sedative.

“Don’t you trust me?” my doctor asked. I raised an eyebrow, or at least tried to. It was difficult to project witty cynicism in a half-drugged, half-naked state.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he persisted. I couldn’t believe we were having an Oprah-like conversation at a time like that and tried to roll my eyes but for some reason my eyeballs weren’t fully functional.

The doctor eventually kept his word, increased the dose of sedative and my last thought before I drifted into a floaty, dreamy state was:

“Aahh, this is far better than Benylin (with Codeine) ha ha zzzz”