The Stitch

To prove that I am indeed getting older, I had an appointment with a podiatrist today. My first ever appointment with a podiatrist, in fact. I have what is known as "Morton's Neuroma," an annoying little bump settled right on the nerves in my foot that causes a great deal of pain, and lots of tingly toes. I've had it for about 6 years and it's been consistently painful throughout those years, but not enough to do anything about it (except seek pity and ice cream from Brian).

Over the past few weeks the pain has become unbearable, so I went to my doctor, who referred me to a podiatrist, after noting suspicion of neuroma.

You should be aware of the fact that I hate ANYTHING touching my feet. I don't like socks. I don't like shoes. I can't bear to touch my own feet, and I would rather vomit rusty nails through my eyeballs than allow anyone else to touch my feet. A visit to the podiatrist was not going to be easy.

Well, today was my appointment, and I am officially OKAY with having my feet touched. ONLY by my podiatrist, and ONLY because my podiatrist is a God. Pull up a chair and I'll tell you a story.

As I walked into the examining room, the nurse had me sit in a chair just like the one at the dentist. This, I decided, was not a good sign. I don't like going to the dentist, and worse yet, I Googled 'Morton's Neuroma' the night before and knew one of two things was going to happen. Either:

1) I would get a shot in the bonies of my foot. Pick out the boniest of bony spots on your bod, THAT is where the needle would go. DEEPLY. And then I would be injected with cortisone. Foolishly, I read NEWSGROUPS where real people wrote about their personal experiences. "More painful than a rock in the face." "Hurt more than a sunburned bikini wax." "I would rather eat my testicles than ever endure that kind of pain again." were a few of the quotes that really made an impression.

2) I would be required to have surgery to remove the neuroma. Every newsgroup I visited recommended surgery as the LESS PAINFUL option.

Needless to say, I was praying for surgery as I settled my butt into the podiatrist's chair that too-much resembled a dentist's chair and I asked the nurse if I should remove my shoes. She shook her head no and launched my chair to chest height. That's when I reassured myself that this wasn't going to be like a dentist visit. At least now I would be at eye level with the doctor. At the dentist I am usually at butt level, and it's hard to feel secure when you're looking someone square in the ass.

My feet, at this point, were straight in front of me, level with my head, and that's when I realized that I had apparently grabbed the shittiest-looking, mud-covered shoes I owned. I apologized. The nurse laughed and said that everyone's shoes have been covered in mud today.

She removed my shoes. I cringed, knowing that she was going to do the nasty deed and touch my feet.

(She was going to TOUCH MY FEET)

She did not touch my feet. She removed my socks, looked over my chart and left. I exhaled and mentally prepared for round two.

My podiatrist entered and I was a little surprised to see that he's probably a few years younger than I am. I have a feeling this is going to happen more and more often as the years roll by. I chewed on the inside of my cheek as he touched my foot. He rolled the neuroma back and forth with his thumbs, and I swear to all that is white and cotton in my underwear drawer that I almost threw up on the spot.

BUT I DIDN'T. I kept my garbage together and hid my discomfort as best I could.

"Yes, it IS a neuroma!" He said excitedly. He opened a metal cabinet and reached inside to pull out a REALLY BIG FREAKIN' NEEDLE and said, "We're going to inject it with some cortisone to break it up! We'll try this a few times and if it doesn't work, we'll have to talk about surgery, but it's RARE that I have to perform surgery for this problem. We'll probably be able to get rid of it with three to four injections."

"Yeah, that's great," I answered, inching my foot back toward my body in protective fashion. "But last night I googled 'neuromas' and I really don't think I want your little shot there!" I squinted at him and hissed, "The people on the discussion forums say it hurts."

"Oh, well, YEAH! There's no doubt about it! It hurts! It REALLY hurts, and it'll probably leave a big, purple bruise on the top of your foot, but hey, it's better than surgery!"

"REALLY? DO YOU REALLY THINK SO?" I asked.

"Pshhhhhhyeah it is!" He paused a moment, then sliced the needle through the air as he gestured, "So, about Google, that's some cool stuff, isn't it? Do you know how it works? I mean, do you REALLY know how it works?"

"A little - I don't think anyone really knows how Google works, though." I relaxed a bit and settled my foot back down on the chair.

Then we spent a half hour talking about the Internet and Google and how magical and special they are. Then I told him a little secret about a project we have coming up through VMS, and he sucked in his breath and whispered dramatically, "Holy COW YOU ARE FAMOUS!" And then we both giggled like teenage Beatles fans and he jabbed me in the foot with a mother-effing needle the size of the Empire State Building.

I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched the arms of the chair and squawked, "THERE IS NO WAY THIS COULD HURT WORSE THAN HAVING A BABY!"

"I couldn't say for sure, but we could ask my wife," answered the podiatrist. I'm guessing the needle was at the halfway mark by this time, but *I* couldn't say for sure because my eyes were closed and I was having a brain spasm.

"ohmygourdsweetGINGERonaHOTPLATEthisisEXTREMELYunpleasant!" I cried.

"WOW! Heather, this is the BIGGEST one of these I have seen in YEARS! I'm NOT kidding you! This is HUGE!" he shouted, with a little too much glee in his voice. After he said that I was really grateful he was not a proctologist. Or an OBGYN. And then he wrenched the needle around one of those obnoxious, GETTING-IN-THE-FREAKING-WAY little foot bones.

"REALLY?" I asked with clenched fists. "IS IT SO BIG THAT YOU'RE READY TO CALL OFF THIS NEEDLE-PROBING NONSENSE AND GO FOR THE SURGICAL OPTION?"

He laughed and gave the needle another shove, probing deeper into the bonies of my foot. And as quickly as he began, he pulled back the needle and said, "All done!" He sighed and added, "And I'm not kidding you, it really was the biggest one I've seen in a long, long time."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, unclenched my jaw and asked with a nincompoopish wussy whine, "That means that I am super tough, right?"

"You," he said, "Are. THE. Super. Tough-EST."

And then he whispered, "One time I performed that very same procedure on a guy. . . and he peed himself."

"Wow." I said, in awe. "I am Super Tough."

And that, dear friends, is why my podiatrist is a God.