GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #729: THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO THE MARKET

 Five years ago tonight I still had all ten toes. I was in the hospital because one of my toes, the piggy who went to the market had just been examined by my podiatrist, and he said to me, "I want to cut the tip of your toe off." This was because I'd stubbed it, and even though I'd taken good care of it, the infection got into the bone. It had gotten worse over a week, so I went to the ER, and they said they had to hold onto me because it looked horrible.

The thought of losing that big a piece of me was pretty horrifying even though about seven years and a week before that time, I had had my gall bladder removed. But I'd never seen my gall bladder before. I saw my big toe every day, and that made a difference. Still, he said he only wanted to take the tip, not the whole thing.

I called one of the smartest people I know, and he said to let them take it, so I did. Imagine my surprise when I saw that he hadn't just taken the tip. He'd taken everything except for a little stub.

Fast forward to last year, and the podiatrist wanted to cut the tip off another of my toes. The piggy who stayed home. Yeah, it fucked with me, but unlike that first time I wanted to get it over with. I'd gone through it before, and I knew what the healing process was, so I just wanted to fast track it and put it behind me. Except he actually did take just the tip of that one, and I got to attend my grandmother's funeral with the special Frankenstein shoe. What fun.

It would be nice if, when they put me in the ground, I still had eight toes. The likelihood isn't good. Those missing toes are on my good foot, for fuck's sake. My bad foot, should what remains of the arch collapse entirely, is going to have to go, and I'll be down to three toes in one fell swoop. That would suck.

I used to go for long walks nearly every night. I miss that. It's a shame I'll never be able to do that again. Simply going around the block would put my bad foot at risk. Getting old is supposed to take stuff from you, I know, but it's also supposed to give stuff to you to make up for it. So far it's given me gray hair in my beard and a colonoscopy, so it's not looking good.

At least I got to eat solid food tonight. I made a pizza for myself, and it was fucking glorious. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #637: TOE UPDATE

As you may recall I'm down to eight toes, and one of them recently was at risk of leaving me, too. I'd worn a hole in that toe, and it didn't want to heal. Sometimes it would build up a callus around it, but the hole was still there under that dead skin as my podiatrist would tell me every time he sanded it down. This is the exact same thing that happened to the second toe I lost, so you can understand my apprehension.

He eventually did a little minor surgery on the toe. He said he was "popping the tendon," which sounds horrifying and brutal, but it really wasn't. Because the toe was curled up, the callus kept building up, preventing the hole from healing. The surgery straightened the toe out. I can't really move it now, but at least it's no longer a problem.

Because the plug finally came off the hole. A bunch of dead skin came off the other night, showing that the hole was finally closed up. Not only that, but my toenail has started growing back. That is an excellent sign, so good that I'm not going to lose the toe. It's actually looking pretty good right now.

So who knows? Maybe when they put me in the ground I'll have all eight of my toes. Probably not. I'll bet that they take off my left foot before I shuffle off the mortal whatsis. Hopefully not, but with my luck?

Yeah.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #568: HEALTH UPDATE

 I had two doctor visits today: one for my endocrinologist and one for my podiatrist. It was nice to get an update on how I've been doing, especially since it's my 125th day from booze.

My endocrinologist told me that my A1C is down! It was horrendous in March this year. A whopping 10. Not good. Now it's down to 7! It's getting to the point where I have low blood sugar incidents on occasion, which is fairly new to me. She wants to see if we can move away from insulin and stick to oral meds by the next appointment. It would be nice to stop stabbing myself four times a day.

My blood pressure is up, though. Not as bad as it was when I made ER doctors nervous but still. I'm sure my primary doctor is going to put my hypertension meds back up to a higher dosage when I see him next year.

The podiatrist is happy with the progress on the hole in my toe. It seems to be closing up, so maybe I won't lose this little piggy. He gets to keep eating his roast beef.

Now if only I can get this fucking tennis elbow to go away . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #275: I DON'T THINK THIS ONE'S GONNA MAKE IT

I remember when a boss at a previous job got two of his fingers cut off with a chainsaw. Perhaps I should clarify. I wasn't there. I just came in to work one morning to see two of his fingers thickly bandaged. He told me that he'd taken his son out into the wilderness to cut down a Christmas tree. He told his son to hold the tree while he capped it, but his kid wasn't paying attention. The chainsaw slipped, and my boss got two of his fingers chopped off. This guy was a real tough guy, too. He collected his fingers, put 'em on ice and drove himself to the ER, where they reattached the fingers despite one of them being "degloved." Don't Google that. It's what you think it is.


Fast forward a bit to when he'd just come back from a doctor appointment. I asked him how things were going, and he held up the index finger. He said the doctor said it was looking good. Then he calmly tapped the tip of the middle finger, the one that had been degloved. I can't reiterate enough how calmly he said this: "I don't think this one's gonna make it."


I couldn't fathom how he could have been so nonchalant about it. I'd be going out of my fucking mind. He just accepted it as a fact of life.


It made it, by the way. Both fingers healed and healed fast. The last time I saw them, they didn't bear so much as a scar, which I can't believe to this day.


Anyway, the point of this does relate to me. I remember when three different doctors told me that my big right toe had to go. I felt absolute terror at the idea. I consulted family and friends, and while they brought me comfort, they did not help me make up my mind. I had to do that on my own. It came down to the moment when the podiatrist said that either I let him take my toe, or he'd have to cut halfway up my foot in a week. I let him take the toe.


Then the toe next to it started looking bad. I didn't fuck around with this one. I went to immediate care, and to my glee they said that it was fine, it just looked ugly. Then I saw the podiatrist, and he said that I wasn't out of the woods yet. I had a ways to go toward healing. Worst case scenario: he'd have to cut off half of that toe, probably less.


When he told me that, I felt utterly calm. I didn't realize it until late that night as I tried to go to sleep, but I was channeling my old boss. My mantra became, "I don't think this one's gonna make it."


Thankfully the podiatrist said that it's looking better, but I now understand how my boss felt way back then. Maybe it was because of the trauma of the first amputation, I wasn't quite so scared of the possibility of a second. I don't know if that's good or bad. If you know the answer, run it by me.