Bad Teeth and Feet

So it's not like any of you, dear readers, need further evidence of Teeth's bitchiness and self-indulgence, but here it is anyway (with a medical update to follow, for something completely different).

Yesterday was Teeth's birthday. I can't tell you exactly how old she is (and I am currently refraining from making jokes about looking in the horse's mouth), but she's in her early forties, which I find appalling. Anyway, Sylvester went in early and printed up a whole bunch of signs saying, "Happy Birthday, Teeth!" and plastered them all over the reception area. That way, Teeth would be greeted by this cheerful and well-intentioned messeage when she came in shortly before 8:00.

Princess Anne and Wolf Woman were sitting at reception when the little ray of sunshine arrived. She walked in, took one look at the signs and said, "I am NOT in the mood for this today." Then she stomped back to her desk in our pod. A few minutes later, Sylvester emerged and removed all the signs.

Apparently, Teeth's mother-in-law in Eastern Canada was going in for a lumpectomy that morning, and Teeth was spraining her vagina with anxiety. Still, I think her reaction was rude, juvenile and self-indulgent.

I had to leave early yesterday for a doctor's appointment (see below), and I thought I would take a little bit of passive aggressive revenge by being nicer to her than she deserved. So as I was leaving, I said as geniuinely as I could, "I hope you hear good news about your mother-in-law soon."

But it didn't work. She didn't feel guilty, only justified, I think.

Oh well, live and learn.

So, the ongoing medical saga that is my life:

Okay, so I don't spend a lot of time looking at the bottom of my feet. Hell, up until relatively recently, I had trouble seeing the tops of them! So I was a little surprized when the Little Hunneydoo told me that I had really thick callouses, especially on my left foot. I wasn't worried or anything because I figured it was just a result of fencing. No biggie, but because I'm a diabetic now, and feet are a perennial concern for the insulin-challenged, I promised the Little Hunneydoo that I would bring it up to my GP next time I saw her.

In the past, this has been problematic for me, because when I tell my GP things, she takes action like a terrier on a rat. And it almost always results in unpleasantness for me, like pints of blood being extracted for tests, vaginal ultrasounds and barium milkshakes. It occasionally makes me long for the days when I had a GP who didn't ever lay a hand on me and wrote prescriptions with careless abandon (even if they were for medications I was allergic to and which didn't work).

But a deal is a deal, so when I saw Katherine Anne next, I said, "My wife wants you to look at my feet."

And when I showed her, she said, "Those aren't callouses. Those are warts. It's a viral, auto-immune thing, and we have to treat them very aggressively."

"Treat how and aggressive what?" I asked suspiciously.

"Every two weeks, you're going to come in and we're going to spray the warts with liquid nitrogen."

Fuck you, I thought, and then Katherine Anne went off to have a baby, and for a little while, her nefarious plan to cripple me was put on the back burner, so to speak.

But, as I mentioned, she's one of these good doctors that are concerned for the well-being of her patients, and rather than just abandon us to walk-in clinics and emergency rooms, she arranged to have a locum take her place during her maternity leave. And this guy is awesome. He's terrific. He's personable, has a sense of humour, answers your questions, never hurries you, is thorough...and he does exactly what Katherine Anne tells him to do.

The first or second time I saw this guy, he was all about treating the warts. He made me take off my shoes, and then he aimed somthing that looked like an aerosol can at the bottom of my feet.

"I heard this stings a little," I said, bracing myself.

"Yeah, a little, but if it's any consolation, little kids get this done."

Then he squeezed the trigger and there was a hissing sound. But no sensation. I was delighted.

Well, hell, I thought, if this is all it is I can handle OMYFUCKINGGODWHATTHE HELLISGOINGONONMYFEET????

The most incredible stinging was driving me out of my mind. It felt like thousands of fine, freezing cold needles were boring into the bottoms of my feet and they weren't going to stop until they touched bone.

He did five "cycles" on each area of my foot and said, "There. That's good for now. I'll have you come back in two weeks and do it again."

"What if I don't?" I asked, looking for blood.

"They can spread and be a real problem," he answered. "Best if you take care of them now before they get a lot worse."

So, dutifully, I showed up again two weeks later. This time, he examined my feet and jumped up saying, "Wait a second while I get a scalpel. I'm going to carve some of the callous off."

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but to my mind, letting someone at the bottom of your feet with a razor sharp surgical knife is counter-intuitive. Especially if the bastard has every intention of slicing up your tootsies and then spraying them with liquid nitrogen AGAIN. And yet, such is my trust in Katherine Anne and her locum that I surrendered up my feet with scarcely a groan. And to be perfectly honest, the scalpel didn't hurt at all. I hardly knew he was down there. Until the spraying part. That always leaves me limping for a few days.

Christ on a crutch, that's nasty. But on the plus side, they're definitely getting better and progress is being made.