I just had the most hilarious doctor’s appointment and had to share.
I’ve been having some foot pain that’s gotten progressively worse, to the point I resorted to seeking medical care. This is a Big Deal, because I don’t like people to touch my feet unless I’m married to them or have given birth to them, so the list of Feet Touchers is a very short one.
This past Monday, I went to see my primary care physician to see if she could fix it, but it wasn’t and I was referred over to a
foot fetishist podiatrist. I was supposed to have x-rays done before seeing Dr. Tootsie Wootsies, but either I spaced that or it wasn’t clearly brought to my attention, so I showed up at my appointment this morning feeling anxious about waggling my naked feet at a stranger AND I had already disappointed the higher ups by not getting the ordered x-rays. Whoops. I felt like I had a check mark by my name on the chalkboard and was an infraction away from losing my recess time.
I sat in the special foot exam chair, which is mainly an uncomfortable recliner that is far enough off the ground it should probably have handrails, safety straps and a retractable fire escape in case of emergencies. I had my socks and shoes off and felt MORE naked than I do during a gynecological exam.
Dr. Tootsie Wootsie came in and his appearance caught me off guard. Without putting too fine a point on it, let’s just say that his looks didn’t match up with his name, which I will not be blabbing about here. He looked like a professional lacrosse player sporting a lab coat, in his mid-30s, and had a goatee that barely escapes the definition of ‘soul patch.’ I really, really wanted to ask to borrow his old Stone Temple Pilots or Smashing Pumpkins CDs to see if it got a reaction, but I refrained.
Dr. Tootsie Wootsies put on the required gloves and manipulated my foot into a variety of poses and configurations that was oddly fascinating to watch, a little like Cirque du Soleil, which causes me to be entranced and repulsed at the same time. Then he pulled out a couple cotton swaps, the kind with a looooong wooden hand holds and a pathetic bit of cotton on the end, and he broke one in half. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be jamming the splintered cotton swap under my nails or suddenly had the need to pick his teeth. Instead, he poked my foot a few thousand times to make sure I didn’t have any nerve damage. The good doctor determined the pain wasn’t related to joints/arthritis, tendons, muscles, nerve damage or poor circulation. We had a mystery on our hands. Feet. Whatever.
The hilarious part came when he spoke to me about the possible causes and what the pain felt like and when and how and duration and he pumped me for adjectives, only, he wasn’t directing his comments at me. No, he looked at my feet nearly the entire time. It was very hard not to giggle and I imagined why it was preferable to talk to my feet than my face. I mean, if I had to pick my best physical feature, it’d be my eyes, with my feet coming next-to-last. (Last place is a three-way tie between arm fat, varicose veins and a surgical scar.) But he just kept on staring at my feet, talking away, like my big toe was going to sprout a mouth and answer him. My foot nudity anxiety was abated and my outlandish sense of humor began to run amok in the playground of my mind. Was he thinking up nicknames for my feet? Rose and Gladys, perhaps? Did I have an unusual toe shape that he couldn’t help but stare at? Were the secrets of the universe revealing themselves in my bone structure? I just don’t know, but I had to stop pondering the possibilities because I was finding it hard to answer his questions while my mind ran away with absurd ideas.
I left with an ankle brace and the promise of more information once the forthcoming x-rays were reviewed. I hobbled back out to my truck, no better off than when I had arrived, but hey, at least I had some blog fodder, and until I know more, I’ll be rockin’ the orthotics and communing with my friend I. Buprofin.