Someone Bring Me A Chair

Now for something a little different than usual.... 

Someone Bring Me A Chair

“Ok, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go get my toe looked at, but only if you go to the eye doctor and finally get yourself some new glasses and stop complaining about not being able to see.”

“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”

We shook on it – a silly, ceremonial gesture overseen by wry smiles and winking eyes. Neither of us actually wanted to go to our respective doctors and take care of our relatively simple ailments.

I don’t quite know when it happened, but I undeniably fell into the stereotype that men avoid the doctor at all costs. I can honestly remember telling myself that under no circumstances would I become that asshole coughing up a lung or bleeding from his ears that said, “No, really. I’m fine. Just … someone bring me a chair. I just need to sit for a minute and I’ll be good to go,” and actually mean it.

The moment I decided not to be that guy: I strolled through the front door of my parents house after a particularly rough baseball practice, still riding the high brought on by the freedom of being sixteen and able to drive myself around, when my sister, near tears, ran up to me.

“Dad fell off a ladder!!” “What? Where?!” “Backyard. He’s just lying there.” I sprinted through the house, out the open back door, three steps to the porch railing, vaulted myself over it and landed next to my father who lay motionless next to a now broken ladder. “…Dad…?”

He rolled over. “That fucking hurt.”
“Are you ok?”
“Ladder just gave out and down I went. Landed right on top of it. Broke the fucker.”
“You landed on the ladder? How high were you?”
“Top rung. Had to trim a branch.”

It was then that I looked up to the tree and noticed his 18’ tree pruner (basically a saw on a pole for cutting hard-to-reach branches from tall trees) hanging precariously from a half-sawed branch. “Ok, Dad. We’ve gotta move you.” I bent at the knees, preparing to lift my not-so-light father. I threw his arm over my shoulder and he doubled over in pain, grabbing at his chest. “Or maybe we should call an ambulance, Old Man.”  
“Fuck that. Bring me a chair. I just need to sit for a minute and I’ll be good to go. And bring me some water. And Crown.”

Turns out Dad broke two ribs and fractured his back, but we didn’t find that out until he went to the doctor … four weeks later. So I decided I wouldn’t be that guy.

It’s not that doctors scare me, or their offices or even hospitals. I consider myself in good health, even if WebMD has turned me (and, admit it, you, too) into a closet hypochondriac convinced that I’m tired not because I was up late working last night but because I have the diabetic AIDS cancer I’ve read so much about. My mood upon leaving a doctor’s office is, more often than not, optimistic that I very probably will not be dying of some medical cause in the immediate future. All in all, no real reason to fear the doctor. If anything, I should welcome the word of an expert, a professional, telling me that my headache is being caused by stress and not a sinus infection that spread into brain cancer, leaving me only two weeks to live (and I’ve still so much to do).

It surprised me, then, to find myself displaying much the same attitude as my father.

“Does this look like an ingrown toenail to you?”
“Sure does.”
“You’re not even looking”
She sighed, loudly, as she put down her book to glance at my toe. “I’ve no idea. I don’t know what an ingrown toenail looks like. But it definitely looks like it hurts.”
“Please. I can take the pain. I’ll be fine.” It did hurt. And looked awful.

WebMD more or less confirmed for me that I did indeed have what looked like it may well have been an ingrown toenail, complete with a nasty infection. But they also offered home remedies – no need for a visit to the doc.

I traveled back home for the winter holidays and my mom, being a mom, asked about my toe. Naturally, I said that it was fine even as it sat wrapped in a Band-Aid smothered in Neosporin and screaming for some antibiotics lest the infection spread and kill me. We have three dogs at my parents house, and errant paws run rampant through the house. Unfortunately for me, one landed squarely on my toe. Now, I can take pain, but this sent me to the floor … and my mom sent me to the urgent care center.

“Yup. Your toe is definitely infected. We’ll get you some antibiotics and fix you right up.”
“So it’s not an ingrown toenail?”
“Nope. Just infected. Take these twice a day for ten days and it should knock out the infection.”

This conversation happened with two different doctors. Twice the infection returned. I took a different route.

“Foot Doctors, how can we help you?”
“Hi, yeah, um, I need to make an appointment for my toe.”
“Do you have insurance?”
“Yeah. I found you on my insurance website. You’re in network.”
“Ok. How’s three weeks from now?”
“You don’t have anything earlier?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Does that work for you?”
“Yeah. Sure. That’ll be fine. Something in the middle of the day would be great.”
“Ok. Three Wednesdays from now, 1:30.” I gave her my info and set up the appointment.

For those of you that don’t know, medical care in New York City is excellent if you can find a doctor that you trust. The only problem is that you have to wait an hour or two once you get there. And you have to arrive before your scheduled appointment time as most offices charge you a fee if you’re late. I did not know this before I showed up just on time for my appointment … and sat in the waiting room for an hour.

But once the doctor saw me, it was quick.

Nurse: “Take off your shoes and socks. Sit on the chair. Put your feet up. The doctor will see you in a minute.”

I took off my shoes and socks, removed my seemingly ever-present bandage from my toe and waited. The doctor strolled in wearing the usual white coat but minus the stethoscope. I guess I should have guessed at that. I didn’t really think that he’d need to check my heartbeat from my feet, but my mental image of a doctor always has a stethoscope. It just feels right.

“Ok, which toe?”
“Uh, the one that looks like it needs medical attention.”
“Woah. That thing’s a party favor. How long has it been like that?”
“About … maybe four months?”
“Four months?”
“Maybe longer. I went to an urgent care center and they told me it was infected but not ingrown.”
“Why’d you go to a GP? You wouldn’t go to a neurologist for a broken finger, would you?”
“No.”
“Next time come to me first. It would’ve saved you time, money, and lots of pain. Now, let’s get that toe fixed.”
“Now?” He had already grabbed a syringe and plunged it into a bottle, slowly drawing out the clear liquid.
“Yup. This will hurt a bit, but I’m going to numb up your toe, dig out the nail and remove the infection. Get ready for a pinch … now.”

For those of you fortunate enough to have missed the exquisite pain involved in being stabbed in the toe, let me tell you that your toes are surprisingly sensitive. The “pressure” he was talking about … anvil dropped on the toe. Surgical strike of acute pain. The bastard stabbed me in the toe! With a needle! He caused intense pain in order to numb it. It didn’t seem fair.

“I’ll be back in about five minutes and we’ll fix you right up.”

Five minutes passed where the feeling in my toe disappeared.

“Ok! Ready?” He flicked at my toe. “Feel that?”
“Not really.”
“Excellent. You’re ready.”

He dove right in. Taking what looked a bit too much like a wire cutter, he started hacking away at my nail, cutting straight down and losing his nail clipper under my skin. He cut out a sizable chunk of my nail and a good piece of skin. This all should have been quite painful. Instead I stared jaw-dropped and felt nothing.

“There. You’re done. Put this cream on the toe, wear a Band-Aid and everything will be fine.”
“No antibiotics?”
“Nope. I told you, go to the expert first and save yourself some hassle.”

I still don’t know how I got to be “that guy” who avoided the doctor, but here I am again, another toe with an ingrown nail and in so much pain I can barely walk. Just, someone bring me a chair. I’m fine.