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Posts Tagged ‘vacation’

The Woods: Part 3

In The 70's on August 22, 2020 at 4:21 pm

My mother digs a pair of  flip-flops out from the back of my closet floor,  hands one to me and says ‘Here, put this on”  Meanwhile, she calls Jo-Ellen to come and watch my brothers, and when she arrives, gives her money with which to order pizza. I put in a request for mushroom, knowing it will be unanimously vetoed in my absence, just as it usually is in my presence. Jo-Ellen, looking cute in a pink tube top, denim bell-bottoms with butterfly appliques, and cork-soled platform shoes, looks at my foot and gasps “Oh! Gross!” and I just shrug. I’m already used to the reaction. I carefully get into mom’s Gold Duster and we drive across town to the hospital. My toe feels so exposed and vulnerable out in public that when we’re walking into the Emergency Room it seems as though everyone has it out for my foot- you’d be surprised how intimate people’s normal  proximity feels when you’ve got a land mine at the end of your toe. 

A free roof? Jackpot!

At the hospital, my mother explains the situation to the woman at the front desk, a no-nonsense type with short salt and pepper hair, who stares quizzically at her, one eyebrow lifted, like maybe she’s speaking in another language until I finally hoist my leg up and show her my toe. She inhales loudly, and winces. And this is a woman who I assume, has seen it all. We take seats in the waiting room, my mother filling out paper work, and me on sentry duty, making sure no one crosses into my personal space. The worst are the little kids, buzzing about like house-flies, erratic and unpredictable, the adults exhausted from trying to keep them in check. A little boy of about five, wearing an H.R. Pufnstuf tee, airplanes by, sees my toe and yelps ‘Ewww!’ speeding  away. Same to you, buddyboy!

We’re summoned quickly into the examining room, where I struggle to get up onto the metal table, with it’s awkward white crinkly paper down the centerline. While we’re alone, I ask my mom if I can get a vanilla milk-shake from Dairy Queen on the way home, and she says okay so quickly that I also ask for 16 magazine and some Chicklets, to which she replies, ‘Just hold your horses, young lady! Let’s take things one at a time’. Still- it was worth a shot.

A nice looking doctor- maybe mid-thirties or so (unlike Dr. Boone, my 93 year old family practitioner, who sometimes -I’m sorry to say- seems filled with dust, a husk of his former self) walks in with a nurse, a clipboard in his hands. He is tall, with brown Ken-doll hair, and a dark tan, nicely offset by the blue-green scrubs he’s wearing. He’s kind of cute for an old guy. He smiles, teeth gleaming, and introduces himself (“Dr. Makolroy”) while consulting my chart.

It says here you have a toe ‘situation?’

“It says here, you have a situation with your toe” he says, and I nod, holding my leg up and out.

“Oooooh!” he says, a note of concern in his voice. He grasps my foot at the ankle and I flinch.

“Don’t worry!” he assures me, “I’ll be careful” Yeah- you and everyone before you! 

After his close-up examination he tells the nurse to bring him various items with different numbers that sound like hospital codes. She leaves and the doctor turns to my mother. He explains that I will need a tetanus shot and that the toe will have to be flushed, which sounds like we’re cutting it off, throwing it away, and not looking back. My mother nods enthusiastically, like this is a great idea- and why not? It’s not her toe. I will also need the nail removed, and he will refer us to a specialist close by to do the job. I had no idea someone out there specialized in toenail removal, and wondered what life events led them to such a career. My mother doesn’t ask any questions, though I sure have some.

“You mean, I won’t have a freakin’ toe-nail anymore?” I ask, eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh, Lisa- don’t worry about it!” my mother says. “The doctor knows what’s best!” Don’t worry? Are you nuts? I don’t see her walking around town with a missing toe-nail! Believe me- with all of the patent leather sandals she wears and nail polish she owns, she’d freak! 

The Dr. smiles and pats my knee. “Don’t worry, honey. The nail will grow back” My mother jumps right in “Yes! That’s correct! It’ll grow back!” she says, all excited- like she knew that all along. Pa-leeze! I have a feeling this doctor could suggest that ‘putting me down might be in order,’ and my mother would go along…

The nurse returns, and I realize it’s time to ‘endure’ whatever is next. The shot isn’t pleasant, but it’s nothing compared to the moment when the antiseptic is poured over my open wound. It feels like I am being stung by a hive of wasps, though as is my style, I say nothing, grimacing but holding it in-while inside my head I am hysterical. In fact, for a moment I almost black out. I fantasize about what it would be like to sock Dack in the jaw with a sock full of pennies. I picture a strong swing of my arm, a thwack, and a rainstorm of golden pennies swirling to the ground onto his unconscious body. Then I decide quarters would be better: heavier.

Before we leave, the Dr. asks to speak with my Mom in the hallway, using the excuse that he needs to give her the specialist’s card-but you’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to fool me! He’s probably going to tell her about some worst case scenarios that might befall my foot- infections, possible amputation, etc. Things I might not be able to handle. I know all about this-I’ve seen my share of Marcus Welby, MD. I hear them murmuring, but can’t make out what they are saying. Several other doctors  wander in, and look at the toe. I get the feeling they have nothing to do with the case, but that the word got out among the doctors in the Triage like juicy medical gossip: ‘You’ve gotta see this toe! It’s whack!’ It’s after the fourth or fifth curiosity seeker that I realize that the inappropriate laughing I keep hearing in the distance is my mother’s!

I’m glad Mom and ‘McDreamy’ were in such good spirits. But I’m dyin’ over here!

My mom comes waltzing back into the examining room with the doctor, her eyes sparkling. You’d almost think she was having a good time. The two of them are chattering away, talking not about me- but rather, Mystic Seaport and lobster!  I can see my mother is blushing and flashing her pearly whites. Please tell me she is not flirting with the ER Doctor, while her daughter is being treated for a serious injury!

The toe will not be covered with band aids or gauze, but I have to keep it elevated and sanitized. We are to ask for a rush appointment with the specialist, and tell him who we were referred by. Maybe we can get in tomorrow. If he gets a chance, the doctor says he’ll  call the guy himself and give him a heads up. When we leave, my mother says “Ok, Millard. Thanks for the help!” Millard? What is that-a first name or a wooden duck? How does she even know his first name? He replies with a wink, and the smiles on both sides are 100 watts. I’m glad everyone is taking my plight so seriously.

On the way home, I get my milkshake, and since my mother is in such a chipper mood, she stops at Jet Variety and gets me 16 and Seventeen, a pack of Chicklets and a red Charms lollipop. She tells me that all of these things are being gifted with the stipulation that I stay home tomorrow- in bed -with my leg elevated, while she’s at work and trying to get me an appointment with the podiatrist.

“Be a good girl like me, then go marry Keith Richards!”

“Millard says, he’s going to call him and-” she chirps, but I interrupt.

“You mean DOCTOR Malarkey – or whatever?” I ask, accusingly. “Stop saying Millard! That’s such a stupid name anyway! God!!”

My mother sighs, and turns up the radio, a hint of a smile still on her face. Radar Love by Golden Earring blares out of the am radio. I can’t wait for this whole ordeal to be over! But somehow- I gotta keep cool now, gotta take care….

 

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