A-toe-nment

Well, everybody, as always, life is just a roller-coaster of excitement.

Rather unexpectedly, I am writing to you from the waiting room of the local Accident and Emergency Department, whence I have been dispatched by my GP to have my toe sawn off.

I do not know yet if they are going to saw it off today or if there is a waiting list of Cumbrians, all waiting to have their digits detached in order.

At present, as I write these very words I am waiting outside the X Ray room, with my toe throbbing peacefully, having seen a nurse already. She agreed, very helpfully, that obviously I had a very sore toe, and sent me through what seemed like a maze of corridors but was actually about ten yards, to where I am now.

I am not there any more. As I wrote those very words a friendly sort of person summoned me to the nuclear reactor, or whatever it is that they use for taking pictures of your inside, and took some pictures of my poor toe.

I had to hold the rest of my toes out of the way with a bit of plastic and put my foot flat on the special X-Ray bed. That was not nearly as effortless as it sounds, and I was wincing and grimacing before it was done, and I am now back in Accident and Emergency.

The story started this morning, when I woke up with my foot practically on fire, and limped around the house for a little while before giving in and calling the GP.

As it happened there was a spare appointment this afternoon.

By a fortunate chance of fate I managed to get almost everything else done before I left. I changed the sheets and went to the post office and did all of the shopping and made some ice cream and a huge pile of pancakes, watered the conservatory and took Oliver to work. I considered walking to the GP, because it isn’t far and it feels like such a shocking cheat to go in the car, but idleness prevailed, and I drove.

The GP examined my foot from a safe distance, clearly recognising that poking it was not going to be welcomed. It is now bright pink and oozing some revolting yellow slime.

She looked up with the sort of relief that you see in somebody’s face when they realise that it is somebody else’s problem, and they are not going to be the one who has to commence disgusting operations involving patients screaming and swearing.

Hence I am now in the hospital.

The nurse looked at it and scowled.

For goodness’ sake, what does your GP think we are going to do about it? she said. Can’t she take the toenail off herself?

I suggested that perhaps she doesn’t do general anaesthetics, but the nurse just sniffed and said I would have to wait for the doctor.

I waited for the doctor, and I am pleased to tell you that I am now on the taxi rank, and better, my toe is still intact.

When the doctor came to see me he turned out to be about fourteen years old, with a moustache that he must have got out of the dressing-up box. He explained that the bones of my toe are still intact, but the edge of the nail has been driven hard downwards and is sticking into the soft bit underneath, causing leakage, blistering, and general first-class misery as my toe tries equally hard to shove it back out again.

He declined to give me a general anaesthetic, and said that it would fall out by itself, probably quite soon. The infection, he added, was going great guns, so he prescribed me three different drugs and said the nurse would come and put a dressing on it. I must get my GP to change this in three days time, and in the meantime I must not shower or get it wet in any way whatsoever. Then he buzzed off, leaving me listening to a youth in the next cubicle having his dislocated shoulder put back together by another doctor, this one very large and bone-wrenchingly muscular.

I say: listened to, but I couldn’t have failed to hear if I had put my head under the pillow. He used some very rude words, the youth, not the doctor, obviously.

The nurse appeared and put some blissful anaesthetic cream and a plaster on my toe. She said it was important to keep it clean and washed regularly, and gave me the cream as a special bonus present to put on afterwards every time. 

She said that I should change the plaster myself at home, since I seemed like a perfectly capable human being, and not bother the GP.

I was pleased about this as well, I have got other things to do besides sitting in the GP surgery listening to Radio Cumbria for hours at a time, waiting for the GP to take a plaster off my toe.

The drugs are the terrifying sort of antibiotic which makes it impossible to drink, not just whilst you are taking them, but for months afterwards. I had one truly dreadful Christmas at the Midland after the last time I took those, they would make a brilliant cure for alcoholism. I like drinking, and was a little downcast until I remembered that David Nutt, who is one of my all-time brilliant heroes, and who actually went to Cambridge as well, just like I am doing, did I mention it? has recently invented a drink which makes you tipsy and cheerful but does not contain alcohol.

It is not cheap but I have ordered some anyway.

There has got to be some compensation. I will let you know how it works.