Part 5 of the serial: Attack of the Killer Plantar Wart

It wasn't long after the chat with Dr. K Raap that I decided I was fed up with this thing and one way or another I was going to have it out. I began digging at it and cutting at it with anything I could find. Fingernail clippers, pocket knife, whatever. All very sterile, of course. When I had cut into it enough that I was yelling with pain, I enlisted the help of this guy I live with who's generally willing to go along with my crazy ideas as long as they are free. He began cutting and digging and I assured him that I could take it; whatever pain was about to come my way, I'd just grit my teeth and bear it.

Yeah, that lasted about two minutes. He got the thing bleeding, but that's about it. No more self surgery, and no more husband surgery.

Now, if you will permit it, I will ask you to fast forward with me through approximately 4 years of my life. As we fast forward, you will catch glimpses of some very happy times--me smiling with my baby, me smiling bigger with my second baby (I was getting more sleep then) and all sorts of other happy moments. You will also see me wincing and exclaiming in pain with some regularity--the worst moments were when I would be unlucky enough to put my weight onto my left foot while the plantar wart was positioned precisely over some protruding object on the ground. It's the kind of thing that would cause a non-plantar wart person to either say nothing--you've stepped on the metal strip between the linoleum and carpet--or simply say "ouch, what did I step on"--you've stepped on a stray lego--but it's the kind of thing that would cause foot-disease-ridden me to holler "GAAHHHHHH! HOLY MACARONI! What was that?!" and inwardly curse the thing for the next ten minutes until it stopped hurting again. You'd also see my mother and my mother-in-law asking me about it at regular intervals, wanting to know if it was still there (yes), still bothering me (yes), and if I'd figured out anything to do about it (no). And if there was any sound during this fast forward, you might occasionally hear me complain about it, just a tiny bit. Maybe.

End fast forward. Then one day, during the low, sick time of my current pregnancy, say, mid-August, I got it into my head that I was not going to live with this thing anymore. Since I no longer have the appropriate health insurance to just call up my doctor and stop in for a visit, I decided I would call every urgent care clinic in this town until I found one who said "sure, we'll cut the monster out for you." I would pay the $50 or whatever it is per visit, even up to a couple hundred dollars if necessary for the procedure, if I could just be rid of the thing.

So I began calling around. After numerous fruitless calls, my mom happened by and I told her of my plan. We talked for a moment and she said 11 very important words, "I'm going to call my dermatologist and ask him about it." I didn't think they were important words at the time. In fact, I may have rolled my eyes and she may have said "I can at least ask him, can't I?"

Turns out that may have been an important day because approximately 24 hours later, I had an 8:30am appointment with a doctor by the name of Burr.

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Blogger's Note: Expect one more installment in this serial sometime before September 24th. After the sixth installment, please, can I blog about something else for a while?