Flashback Friday: Wart Edition
When I was in second grade, I discovered the tumors. Well, they weren't actually tumors. They were plantar warts and they were on my feet. But they were hard and foreign and I had seen enough episodes of 20/20 to diagnose them as tumors and that is how I came to the conclusion that I was stricken with the foot cancer. Because I was 7, I didn't know that foot cancer isn't so much a concern. But I decided I should just keep it quiet as not to worry anyone. Maybe the cancer would heal itself and I would still be able to go to Disney World over spring break.
But the warts really hurt. They were deep in the balls of my feet and it made walking very painful. So I went to my mom and tearfully confessed my secret foot tumors. I was ready to say my goodbyes and give away all my worldly possessions, but she assured me that it was not cancer. I still had my doubts.
I was then hauled off to some sort of doctor to treat my apparently non-fatal but rather gross affliction. I don't know the exact medical terminology, but as I recall, they performed a wartectomy by strapping me to a table and digging at my feet with rusty razors. Or something like that. It hurt like a bitch and seemed to go on forever and ever. I was pretty sure that these "plantar warts" were several feet deep.
The problem with this treatment was that it didn't actually help the pain. In fact, it made it much much worse. I couldn't even wear shoes. I cried because I didn't know how I would go to school if I couldn't wear shoes. Most likely, I was just trying to get out of going to school, but my crafty mom saw through this lame attempt at truancy and said I could wear soft slippers. I cried more. I didn't want to wear slippers. I wouldn't even be allowed to wear slippers to school.
But as it happened, I was allowed to wear slippers to school. And I guess I did. I was certain that everyone would make merciless fun of me for wearing slippers to school and no one would be my friend. But, strangely enough, that didn't happen. Or at least, not for a few more years. And by then it was less slipper-related, I think.
The point is, I survived. And I learned my lesson about watching 20/20. Well, not really. But I should have.
But the warts really hurt. They were deep in the balls of my feet and it made walking very painful. So I went to my mom and tearfully confessed my secret foot tumors. I was ready to say my goodbyes and give away all my worldly possessions, but she assured me that it was not cancer. I still had my doubts.
I was then hauled off to some sort of doctor to treat my apparently non-fatal but rather gross affliction. I don't know the exact medical terminology, but as I recall, they performed a wartectomy by strapping me to a table and digging at my feet with rusty razors. Or something like that. It hurt like a bitch and seemed to go on forever and ever. I was pretty sure that these "plantar warts" were several feet deep.
The problem with this treatment was that it didn't actually help the pain. In fact, it made it much much worse. I couldn't even wear shoes. I cried because I didn't know how I would go to school if I couldn't wear shoes. Most likely, I was just trying to get out of going to school, but my crafty mom saw through this lame attempt at truancy and said I could wear soft slippers. I cried more. I didn't want to wear slippers. I wouldn't even be allowed to wear slippers to school.
But as it happened, I was allowed to wear slippers to school. And I guess I did. I was certain that everyone would make merciless fun of me for wearing slippers to school and no one would be my friend. But, strangely enough, that didn't happen. Or at least, not for a few more years. And by then it was less slipper-related, I think.
The point is, I survived. And I learned my lesson about watching 20/20. Well, not really. But I should have.
Labels: appropriate footwear, foot cancer
posted by lady at 4:27 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home