About three years ago, I discovered I'd been wearing shoes too small for me for probably twenty years, and about that time, I figured out that I had ingrown toenails as well. So I'd had consistent pain in my feet for most of my life, so what? I just thought that's the way things were.
You can collect similar stories from a lot of people who grew up in dysfunctional households. You don't know anything's wrong until you start comparing with normal people. But you can't compare with anyone because you don't know how to connect in a functional way for a long time. And even once you become functional, you aren't around normal people because they don't feel right to you for even longer. So it takes a long time to understand what the normal people experience actually is. If that makes any sense.
To sum up: What does a normal foot feel like? Apparently, not mine.
So I decided to go to a foot doctor to try to get this fixed.
There were many, ahem, steps to this process. Each of them took some time and deliberation. I got a recommendation from my doctor. I had to calm down from doing that and agree that yes, I was worth the time and money and investment to get this done. I called to make an appointment. Again, I had to calm down from that freakout and talk myself into not cancelling; yes, I am worth taking time off work to make this happen.
I had to go to the doctor and evaluate him as trustworthy and make sure I wasn't overriding my instincts with a fit of classic child-of-narcissists urge-to-please. (I did not want to get stuck with a horrible doctor and end up getting re-traumatized, which is a real risk for people like me.) I had questions I had to make sure I asked, with notes on paper so I wouldn't forget. I had to make an appointment for the minor surgery, take time off work, make sure my husband took time off to drive me home.
The first appointment was the hardest. It's tough for me to walk into any unknown situation, to face people I've never met, and wonder what judgement lies beyond the door, what they will think of me. I had the recommendation of someone I really trusted, and I knew that if I wanted to walk away, I could do that. During the appointment, Mr. Kind Podiatrist looked at my toes and wiggled them around, confirmed that I have ingrown toenails, and started talking about options. But amongst his kind and gentle poking and prodding of my big toes, he noticed my weird second toenail on my left foot.
There's a pretty good story to go with this toenail, and believe me, you do not want a picture of that toenail! My parents used to have these super dangerous lawn chairs from the 70s. Here, let's see if I can find a picture of the chair at least:
My siblings and I were making forts with the three lawn chairs, piling them on top of each other, trying to get them to stay upside down, having variable amounts of success. Per usual, my dad wandered by at one point with a drink in his hand and yelled at us to stop doing that, and we stopped for as long as he was in range, and then started up again as soon as he couldn't see us. Kid stuff.
Suddenly, one of the chairs collapsed, and one of the hinges grabbed my second toe and pulled out the toenail. I screamed and there was blood everywhere. My dad came running and the first words out of his mouth were, "I told you kids not to do that anymore, goddammit!" He grabbed me and ran into the bathroom, put me on the counter, and ran cold water over my bleeding toe. It hurt like hell, and I cried and screamed sitting on the counter. He held my foot under the water until it stopped bleeding, telling me to knock it off, I should have listened since I was the oldest. I don't remember the band-aid or anything, but when my toenail grew back, it was a quarter inch thick and cloudy like a goat's hoof. My dad said that was my toenail's reaction to getting pulled out. My whole family made fun of it for years, and my parents said it's what I deserved for disobeying. I couldn't really trim it very well, and it sometimes snagged my tights when I got older.
When Mr. Kind Podiatrist saw my blunt little stubby toenail, I was ready. I had my story prepared as a pre-emptive strike, isn't this funny, ha-ha! and told him my story about the lawn chairs and how the toenail got ripped out and that's why my toenail is that way and isn't that funny!
"Oh no," he said. "That's a fungus."
"What." I said.
"That's a fungus," he said. "We can clear that right up. Just takes a little medicine."
"Really." I said.
[Let us pause here. No. Really. Let's.]
Reader. Oh Reader. It took every ounce of self-control I had to not pick up the entire exam table, crack it in half, and throw it through the wall. I just kept thinking, forty years. For almost forty years, I've been living with this toenail, letting my family make fun of me, blaming myself, letting them blame me, filing it down, being ashamed of it, of myself, when all it is is a fungus?
In that forty years, where were my parents? Why didn't they ever take me to a doctor to ask the question? Six words! "Is there anything we can do?" Nope, too much work. Too much effort. Too much trouble. It's her fault - never mind that they were the parents, I was the child. She should have minded - never mind that I was seven years old and just being a kid. This follows the pattern: Didn't do your job as a parent and you feel bad about it? Blame the scapegoat child and never admit you did anything wrong! Problem solved.
"It's just a fungus."
I got through the rest of the appointment the way I do everything else in my life. I shoved my angry, terrified, or difficult feelings into a box and pretended with all of my highly tuned acting skills that everything was perfect. I worked out all of the details of the upcoming procedure. I was present, and contained my fury until I got home. Driving home was tough. Every once in a while it threatened to swell up around the edges, but I knew I might drive into another car if I started screaming so I didn't think about it. I got home safely, played computer games, and zoned out with a cat on my lap until my husband got home and started making dinner. I perched on our table and tried not to rip things apart as I told him what happened.
My friend Karrie Higgins has written extensively on her medical issues and what requesting her medical records has revealed to her. I've considered doing the same thing just to see what else comes up.
I keep reminding myself that this will happen over and over. I wrote about this before in my Law & Order sound effect blog post. (Jung Jung!) There will always be something new that strikes me in a different way, or that I'm seeing with new eyes. Or someone will tell me a story about my parents that I've never heard before, and I'll listen and gain a perspective that sheds light in dark corners.
Knowing it will happen again doesn't keep it from being infuriating. The anger is fresh each time. If there were an Academy Award for Not Hulking Out in a Public Place, I would have twelve of them on my imaginary mantle. But it's worth the anger. It's confirmation of what I instinctively believed when I started this journey, and what I now know to be true. My parents chose to blame me for an accident that could have happened to any child, and when it happened, they sought no medical treatment for the next eleven years. In addition, they teased me about it, and never thought that I was worth the trouble of mentioning it to a doctor. That's not good parenting. That's not parenting.
I may find more surprises around other corners. Will I take care of them myself? The answer is YES.
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