Due to my rheumatoid arthritis, my toes are a crooked mess. Those that share this issue can relate with me. I have bunions, hammer toes, lumps and bumps, and downright sore feet. My wonderful husband massages my toes and feet every night to try to alleviate the pain and allow me to have some undisturbed sleep. He’s such a champ.

Just recently I noticed next to one toenail an odd-looking growth developing. It was an ugly and mean-looking bugger. When I would shower, it would bleed and then my shower floor, towel, and bathroom floor would need a good cleaning. No doubt what had to be done. I needed to call my podiatrist. I had to find out what was going on with this mysterious growth.

My dad had been a real jokester. He would have told me, “Oh, you don’t need to call the doctor! What you need is a toe truck!” Then he would laugh and laugh thinking he was funny. He had a toe truck joke that he loved to tell. So, naturally anything relating to toes, dad would throw in his toe truck joke. In honor of my dad, we could at least drive my toe IN a truck to get to the doctor. Would that work as a toe truck?

When the day came to go to the doctor, I was so nervous. Now, I have had at least a dozen surgeries in my lifetime, why would I be nervous over a toe problem? I was picturing a big needle being put in the small toe and coming out the other side. I could just see Old Geyser shooting a spray of blood coming from the toe and going everywhere. I could see the doctor going to cut off the growth then slipping and off comes the toe. I was being totally unreasonable in my thoughts.

My husband took me to my doctor’s appointment, but as everyone knows times have changed since the Covid-19 pandemic. You have to sit in your car, call the office, and then wait for them to call you back telling you that it’s okay to come into the office. While waiting for my call, my legs were trembling. My husband thought this was all incredulous. “It’s only a toe!” Hmmmm! My toe, not his I thought.

When the inevitable office procedure was about to take place, I was told my toenail would be removed first and then he would excise the growth (a multisyllabic word that I can’t pronounce yet alone spell). He took out the needle to numb the toe. Oh, no! I’m going to have to watch this! But no! The doctor took his stool and put himself between my view and my foot. Oh, thank heavens! In went the needle. Out came the toenail. None of which I could feel. Then the big announcement. He tells me he’s going to remove the growth, put it in a specimen bottle for analysis, and then wrap the toe up. Done!

After the toe was all wrapped, my doctor said, “You are free to go. See you in a week.” I thought, “What do you mean, see you in a week?” “What about an antibiotic?” “What about pain medication?” “When can I take a shower?” Before he could escape the room, I threw a few questions at him and out the door he went. He’s a great doctor and all, but I felt abandoned. I put on my shoes and hobbled to the checkout desk then to our “toe truck”. It was over. I survived. I still have my toe minus a nail and the mystery growth, but all is well. My husband was right the whole time. I made a “toe-tal” mess of myself over something small. I mean after all, as John McGinn said, “You always need to be on your toes.”