Many of you, and I mean the three people not counting my husband who read this blog, are probably curious about my funky toenail and whether or not I ever got it taken care of (please see archives for Part I – My Funky Toenail). That was four years ago and luckily I was able to have it successfully treated without growing a third eyeball.
I consulted the yellow pages and made an appointment with a Podiatrist. I didn’t know what to expect but sandal season was fast approaching and I was damned if I was going to keep painting over my mess of a toenail pretending it looked like the others. It looked like shit and it was really scary by now. I held little hope that this would end well.
The Podiatrist took one look at it and confirmed what I already knew. I had the fungus. He told me that he almost never prescribed medication to clear it up because he really didn’t feel comfortable with the side effects. I felt defeated. Certainly that meant I would have to go through life with this shitty toe because if a TOE DOCTOR can’t help you, you are kind of screwed. However, he must have sensed how vain I am because he threw me a lifeline. He very calmly said he could just TAKE THE TOENAIL OFF. Hmmm… what?! He explained that a very effective remedy was to remove the toenail and then apply an anti-fungal for 10 days, after which the new toenail would grow in and voila, pedicure city! And just for the record? Yes I am still regularly getting pedicures because I figure what are the odds that it will happen again? Actually they’re probably pretty high and yet I DON’T CARE.
The podiatrist put a small tourniquet on my toe, shot me up with some Novocain, and popped that sucker right off. He forgot to mention how much blood it would produce. I couldn’t even look at it but I was glad to finally be rid of that crumbly yellow toenail.
He gave me a prescription for the antifungal and told me what to do with it. I went home and spent the rest of the day with my foot up wishing I could construct a fence to keep the toddler and the pre-schooler from using my leg as a jungle gym. Kids, mama does not have a TOENAIL there anymore. Back off!
Dave felt so sorry for me he actually went to the store on his lunch hour and bought me some new books and other stuff I can’t remember. But strangely, no wine. If the removal of a toenail were to happen today it would require not only copious amounts of alcohol but also possibly a Vicodin or two leftover from when I did something bad to my back. And yes everyone, I lied when I said I didn’t have them anymore. What, am I Walgreen’s? My point is that we must not have been drinking as much back then as we are now. Our current consumption is directly proportionate to how old our children are and at 9 and 6 it’s positively Betty Ford-y around here.
Luckily a couple of days later we were over at dad and Debby’s and my McGyver step-mom gave me an empty pill bottle (because she saves EVERYTHING) to tape over my toe to act as a barrier from the children. Even though I looked totally ridiculous I gratefully accepted her cock-a-mamie solution because anything was better than having my toe stepped on repeatedly.
*******And dad, it is apropos of NOTHING to inquire about my toenail and “whether or not it has started growing back in yet” in the middle of Easter dinner. I could not hear anything over the din of forks clattering on the table as everyone turned to stare. P.S. Dad – If you’re going to start the story you’re going to have to finish it after everyone is done eating.
Anyway, I kept using the antifungal cream and slowly the toenail grew in. Sometimes I forget which toe it was. And I like to think I’m kind of like the toenail fungus ambassador because I have a couple of friends who have the fungus and I very enthusiastically point them in the direction of Dr. Wonderful. Because when sandal season truly arrived? I was looking fine.