i know i should fix my toe fungus, and yet
the strange pleasures of refusing to change
In the decades-long battle between my toes and the fungus that’s feasting upon them, a clear victor has emerged.
Eight of my ten guys are done for, not so much waving the white flag as becoming one, each nailbed a shard of broken ice atop a mountain that even the most seasoned pros would look at and go “no way am I climbing that lets go home.”
The left foot is gone. All five toes, infected.
The right foot still stands a chance, though morale is low.
I do not like this situation. These are bad guy in a movie toenails, and I’m not a bad guy. I’m the goofy friend or a computer guy with good toes. Clear, white nails on the ends, someone you can trust. How did I end up with these toenails?
Adding insult to injury, my parents have become absolutely obsessed with this situation. They suggest cures across the spectrum: stop eating bread, chug apple cider vinegar, see a doctor.
—
The first doctor I saw in LA gave me some medicine that I determined was making me - and this is a medical term so don't worry if you don't get it - 'feel sorta weird.'
Immediately and with no consultation with said doctor, who at this point, I was sure, was in the pocket of Big Toe, I stopped the treatment.
Years passed and the toe fungus continued its slow, steady assault upon the nail beds I’d once rested my proverbial head.
Even my four year old son Wilder was concerned. "Dad, you need to go to the doctor," he said. "Your toes look yucky."
Had his grandparents sent him? Or was he just trying to change the subject after throwing a Croc at his sister.
“You can’t do that bud,” I said, not taking the bait.
“Okay!” he screamed, defiant, like I was doing something wrong by telling him. "Don't look at me!" he wailed, wanting to hide, his shame not yet developed enough to know that it, too, needs hiding.
"Okay just don't hit your sister."
"I SAID OKAY" he screamed and ran into his room, barreling into his little sister on the way, who got up, crying, and waddled over to me, pointing at my toes.
Enough was enough.
I made an appointment with the good folks at Blue Ridge Foot Center, the most reputable outfit in town that also had a sort of sexual image of a foot being caressed on their sign.
I needed the treatment, and more so I needed THE foot doctor of Asheville. He was kind and tall. Lived in the woods like most people here do. Talked about real estate like most people do. Explained that this wouldn't be easy to which I thought but did not say, "nothing ever is."
His plan involved six laser removal treatments for a sum total of $890. Sure, I said, a classic “insurance will cover it” situation.
Nope. It was a cosmetic procedure, they said. Cosmetic? The lion’s share of my summer months inbound business flow comes from bbq events at which I need to wear open toe’d shoes. This was economic. Psychosocial. Cosmic.
But what can you do. When the devil says pay up, you pay.
And so I agreed, the doc left the room, and a nurse escorted me for the first of my treatments. There, on the floor, was a foot bath looking contraption that apparently had lasers in it. I stuck my feet in.
I texted Lauren, “I’m doing it right now. I feel nothing.”
“Wow,” she replied.
“It cost $890,” I said.
“Wow,” she replied.
And then it was over. Done. Easy. Too easy? A scam?
I looked at my toes. Fully healed.
Jk not even close.
The doctor was back, reminding me how long and hard of a process this would be. Also, there were medications. The same kind I took before, if I wanted, plus two ointments and some pills you could only get from one manufacturer in Ohio. He’d already given them my phone number. They’d be in touch.
They were. I got the pills. I got the ointments. I was ready for a life of good guy toes.
That was five months ago.
I have, since then, applied the daily ointments a sum total of eight times and completed exactly zero additional laser treatments.
We had one scheduled but I missed it for some reason and figured they'd call me to reschedule but they never did. I'd been traumatized by this dentist in LA who wouldn't stop calling, so I figured all doctors called incessantly. The weird pills Ohio company did too. Wasn’t this the norm?
Not the foot guy in Asheville. He didn't give a fuck if i lived or died.
And so here I am, dying, trying to make Wilder stop throwing blueberries on the ceiling, when my parents call.
“Have you been taking care of the toe stuff?” My dad asks in the tone you’d use when approaching a tiger that’d snuck out of his cage.
Rawr. My mind feels like that moment in a dubstep song when the bass finally drops. Like I’d been waiting for it. I’m enraged. Incensed. How dare they ask me this. GOD. I scream that, in my head, “GOD.”
“Yes?,” I say, “I’m handling it?”, a question that really means ‘how dare you even ask?’
Okay, they say, and the call quickly ends.
These, now, are the facts of the case.
Questions abound.
I want to have clean toenails. I've already paid to have clean toenails. Why don't I take the simple steps to have clean toenails?
Why did I get mad at my parents for bringing up something that I was very much not taking care of? Why not say ‘thank you’ and accept the kind help?
Why won’t Wilder stop throwing those blueberries and hitting his sister?
Am I afraid of being seen by my parents as needing help? Not being able to do it on my own, reflexively getting mad at them to prove I don’t need anyone’s help? I mean how dare they think I need help with this I’m not a child!
And perhaps most importantly, why could you only get those pills from that one place in Ohio?
I don’t know. The only thing I’m sure of, 100%, is that my parents will call me immediately upon reading this. Perturbed but showing no signs of letting up,, they will ask about the toe nails and tell me why it is important, essential business that I finish the treatments.
And I will get upset, even though I know its coming, and scream I KNOW in a tone that means “don’t look at me!” because we are all little shamed monsters who want nothing more than to be loved by those who know what we believe to be the truth - that we suck, that we are failing, that we cannot do the simple things that others ask of us, that we are not worthy of love.
But is that what I see when I tell Wilder to stop? Not even close. I know he wants to do good. I know sometimes he just can’t. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. Who cares. Point is, I’ll always try to help.
Am I equating a four year old’s way of being with my own? Of course not. But also, yes.
Any moment now, they will call and implore me, indefatigable, to take care of this situation.
I will laugh and listen and try not to get upset and get upset anyways and say yes, yes, I’ll do it, and I will, if only for a brief moment, actually mean it.
COMMENTS
Do you or have you ever had toe fungus?
Are there things that you want to do but don’t do?
In your life are you more of an Alex or Alex’s Parents? Both?
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have u considered cutting your toes off just an idea idk
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