Notes From An Idle Mind | Note That I’m Unwell

By • Dec 8th, 2011 • Category: WTH

There are ailments that seemingly creep up on you while you’re sleeping and look you in the face the following morning and declare that ‘it’s love’. Some of these you don’t mind having people see them in your company, others… well, you plead and plead with them to leave, going so far as to suggest that you sexual orientation won’t let you be together. This story is not about that kind.

I had an ingrown toenail.

For those of you more preoccupied with fancy diseases that appear only on the stupid box, this is actually a thing. A thing in which the levels of intimacy between skin and nail {in this case toe skin and toe nail respectively} are elevated to uncomfortable levels and the resulting pain alerts you to the inevitable truth; it wasn’t meant to be.

This is a condition that’s not entirely new to me. In fact, such is the level of camaraderie that we enjoy; we complete each other’s sentences. It’s got a life sentence that I basically complete with the word ‘ouch’. So you see, we get each other.

I’ve been walking gingerly in the hopes that my toe’s skin and her nail would tire of each other and give their sordid affair a break. I’m not a nice sensitive guy, I just didn’t want to consider the alternative.

…but their’s was a love too strong, no amount of tip toeing around like the sole of my shoes came outfitted with landmines was going to make this affair end. I’d have walked on eggshells and they wouldn’t have known the difference, nor would they have cared. The bastards.

So, like an idiot I set up an appointment with a medical practitioner of some sort that goes around bars hoping someone will call him a doctor. For all intent and purposes the person on the other end must have been an intern or a cleaner with an ear offering permanent residency to a mound of wax and its family. After a sufficient amount of airtime had been sacrificed, the telecom gods relented and let my message get through to boy genius on the other end.

I finally got round to meeting the doctor yesterday a little after lunch.

I get that our doctors don’t get paid what they are worth, and I think that just sucks, but I really don’t think that’s a good enough reason for a person in that profession to look bored as he deals with a patient. Without planning to, you find yourself trying hard to glamourize your malady hoping he’ll be moved to crack a smile or at the very worst lean over and kiss you declaring that you have broken the curse and he can now live the rest of his life as a human being…

  • “I’ve got toenail intimacy issues”
  • “If my toe and its nail were on facebook, their relationship status would be ‘it’s complicated”
  • “You know who’s got two thumbs and a toe nail that’s digging his skin… THIS GUY”

… are probably some of the things I’d have resorted to if I really gave a shit about ‘glasses’ at the other end of the table.

Instead, I found myself telling him that I had an ingrown toenail then, as an after thought, I added that I had a cough. He wasn’t moved. I guess timing is everything.

He got up and shuffled over for an introduction to my toe. Naturally, I let them do their thing, which resulted in dude whipping out a pen from ‘I have no idea’ where and went Picasso on my digit.

Pleased with his work, he stood at a distance and declared, “That’s where we will have to cut”… then took a moment to threaten me, “When would you like to have this done’.

I was tired of this dude’s schtick so I looked him in the eye and declared I was ready, prompting him to pick up the phone and ask for a dude called Jacob. I used to like the name Jacob, this moment may have killed it for me…

Jacob wasn’t available, so we {the lovebirds and myself} had to make do with Uganda’s Dr. Frankenstein.

I once heard that if you pissed off someone in a kitchen, you would essentially be asking them to pepper your meal with a condiment called ‘spit’. By the same logic, you don’t want to upset an individual that will wield a syringe.

Attempts to be chummy backfired horribly as evidenced by his order that I don’t think about the process but instead divert my attention to something else. Like unicorns and butterflies.

As he slithered around the room, I thought to myself, ‘crikey, first medical practitioner I’ve failed to get along with.”

I’d like to say it was over as fast as it started. Which while not being entirely true spares you the trouble of reading about how beads of sweat danced on my brow as I was being anaesthetized… also, you won’t have to know what I was thinking about as the needle spat it’s vile venom into my helpless veins.

Having endured the Bugos Chainsaw Massacre, I sat up to have a look at the results of the pain I had endured. It was not pretty.

Actually, it could have been worse. I could have had a toe less.

As I limped out of the ‘theatre’ {really just a bed behind a curtain}, Lucifer spat out, “don’t get that toe wet”.

To see the irony here, you need to bear in mind that;

1-  I was wearing sandals

2-  It was raining

I figured my ordeal was over and I limped in defiance to the gods of pain. Then, when, I thought my defense could not be weakened, my resolve could not be swayed, a boda chap looked at my toe and cringed asking in much the same tone he would have asked a colleague that had narrowly survived officiating over a union between a truck and a boda, “obadde kyi?”.


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About Ivan

doesn't get why you feel compelled to force an accent when you're talking to summers