The Plantar Wart

There are old school dermatologists that see duct tape as the answer to everything.  The lady who has cared for me is one of them.  I have gone to her for years and duct tape with acid was her prescription.

A bit like an annoying ex boyfriend who decides to stalk you, the Plantar Wart is something I’ve battled for some years.  On my big toe no less.  It makes high heals feel higher (and sting) and makes pedicures embarrassing.  It makes working out very painful (never thought of it before but I can blame it for a few pounds of fat well!) and it makes sand difficult to walk on (the grains dig in and get stuck).  After four years of duct tape my doctor finally said she’d use a laser.  And she must have forgotten because the next time I saw her she was back to duct tape.

Getting a hint that something could be done instantly about this pain in the toe I switched gears and called a new clinic.  They had a new dermatologist, 3 months in town, come on down and try us out.  And so, sod it all, I did.

Walking into the office I met someone a bit like me.  Young, tall, smart, sharp-witted, and spanish speaking.  Like me but slimmer and more pretty.  She introduced herself by her first name (Oh my goodness, gotta love progress) and sat me down.  She took one look and said come back in a week and we’ll freeze this thing off.

Back flips inside!  I was starting to see this thing like herpes or something – constantly unpleasant and unkillable.  Thanking God for the good sense to seek a second opinion, if somewhat delayed, I got into my car and went home.

Then the day came.  Excited I was.  Until I sat and signed the waiver.  An acknowledgement that this could be painful.  “You have been advised and you understand that you will feel some pain, and in some cases severe pain…”  Eh?!!  Calling in the nurse I asked her is there any anaesthetic?  Looking both ways she said in heavy Scottish brogue, “To be honest no, luv.  It’s a mite nippy.  I’ve had cryotherrapy beforre, don’t get me wrrong it warks.  But therre is a bite.”

Ahhhh boy.  Asking the doctor now I’m like “Doctor Rebeka, is this going to be painful?”  Her answer… “it will feel like a cigarette burn.  But don’t worry – we do this to cheeldren.”

Rasta!  When that torch turned on my foot I near came off the bed.  It was like a bikini wax without the soothing cream and baby powder.   On my big toe.  Taking a few layers of skin off… with a torch.   Knotting knuckles together I squeezed by eyes shut, my lips shut, my thighs shut and my innards shut as the torch came back again.  Six repeats of a cigarette burn!

Hobbling home with a bandage around my foot I was a wee bit in shock.  And treatment calls for a repeat in three weeks – God help us!

It had better work.

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MEOW!!

Last night I went out to dinner with my parents and some visiting delegates who were here for a conference my mom was hosting for work.  She was telling the story about her Grand-puss in Kingston.  The table got to hear her explanation that she has two Grand-pusses; one in Kingston and one she is caring for at home while her son, my brother, lives abroad.  A lady across the table, with the sound of England in her speech, said “Well, I am now caring for my Grand-gerbil now that my son is gone to Sweden.  We aren’t doing very well are we, darling!”

Now.  We have had this conversation.  Grand-gerbils and Grand-pusses and Grand-Lolas and Grand-Juliuses – they are much easier to babysit.  So I was proud of my mom (so well adjusted!) when she said as much to the table.  I had been holding my breath.

So the Grand-pusses had some issues this past week.  Caly-puss, the Kingston silver tabby Grand-puss, swallowed a ball of string.  Bloody animal swallowed the whole thing after playing with it and beating it half to death.  See why I prefer dogs?  They eat sensible things… like their own poop.  Bro found her, after coming home from a long shift at work taking care of human bodies, with a lump in her tummy and a cord hanging out of her mouth.  And rushed her to the kitty hospital.

She had to have surgery and he made the arrangements with narratives to home via blackberry messenger.  Poor guy sat waiting for news of his second daughter’s fate having to deal with his sister on the phone every five minutes with “What are they saying now?”  “Is she out yet?” and when he’d had enough “Why aren’t you answering me?”

Turns out Caly-puss somehow had one end of string tied around her tongue and the rest of it had perforated her bowel.  Whatever that means.  They tell me these things like I should understand.  But this much I got – my niece is sick bad.  All this from his girlfriend after he’d quit talking to me.  So they opened her up, fixed what they could, sewed her up and wished for the best.  The family was then assured that kitty bowels heal really quickly.

My sister, here at home, was impressed upon by Anji-puss, the home Grand-puss, to send a message.  She must have been so worried!

The best part about this whole thing is that Anji is the Darth Vader of cats.  More likely to have sent a “DIE BEATCH!!!!” message if she’d had any say in the matter.