Why I Hate My Toe by alli kofoed

Once upon a time...

There was a nasty little bugger of a toe... a big fat stupid one on my right foot that is keeping me from seeing the Moulin Rouge (the place not the movie), Angelina's (best hot chocolate in the world), the Louvre, Some wonderful French Garden, and General Conference in Versaille!!

So once upon a time in a far away country, this toe decided it was going to hurt. A lot. For weeks it ached and bled and made me suppress a cry of pain anytime I tripped (this is not an exaggeration.... and I trip a lot!) I consulted my mother, a nurse, as to what I should do about this annoying little creaton that was driving me insane. She said that it sounded like I needed to see someone here...

I looked at a list of doctor's in my area to decide who to go to, and lo and behold there in the middle of all the French names that I could never hope to pronounce, I saw "The American Hospital of Paris"! Note: it was not "L'Hopital Americaine de Paris" but "The American Hospital of Paris." I was so happy that for the first time in three weeks I wouldn't have to struggle through my inadequate comprehension of the French language to fix my problem! I pictured it in my head... walking into the hospital to see a nurse walk up to me with a big bright smile and a twinkle in her eye welcoming me with a warm "Well how ya doin' sweetheart! Why don't ya take a seat right o'er there!" The doctor would come in and would ask me how things were back in the states, telling me how he was from California, and though he loves Paris he misses the beach....

When I really first walked into the hospital, I was surprised that everyone there was still speaking French... I seriously thought, "Well.... these must be the French people visiting their American friends!" A little far fetched but.... it's the American Hospital!! Shouldn't there be at least one American there?! Apparrantly not, because the whole time I was there I did not see ONE American!

Anyways... My expectations for the hospital: I was going to see if they took walk ins, and if they didn't then I would schedule an appointment for another day. In out done. Wrong. First I got sent to about 5 different places before they sent me to the emergency room. I told them it wasn't an emergency, but they said to just go there anyways.

After 45 minutes of waiting in the waiting room, a nurse came and checked my blood pressure and all that. She then stuck me in a room and said the doctor would be in in about 10 minutes. Literally an hour and a half later a british/australian lady came in, looked at my foot for a second, then said something about poking or scraping it with a stick. I'm not even kidding. For the pain she just shrugged and said pain killers. She went to call another doctor to see if that was an ok thing to do. When she came back she said there was a change in plans and that I needed to find a Doctor Casinova in Orthopedics and he wanted to take a look.

So after waiting a half an hour more, Dr Casinova took a look at my foot. He said we needed to move to a different room. They laid me down on a table. Understand that I'm still waiting to hear what's wrong with my stupid toe, and I assumed they were still doing some sort of diagnostics. But then he pointed about halfway across my toenail and said, "This is where we are going to start cutting."

I was shocked. I couldn't say anything. He smiled at me and said, "Don't be scared." Don't be scared?! He just told me he was cutting off a chunk of my toe and he's telling me don't be scared?!? But I was so in shock that I could only nodd my head and whisper an "ok.." He and the nurse were very smiley as they prepared my foot, wrapping it in blue paper stuff to keep everything clean, sticking a needle in it to make it numb, getting out all the shiny metal things that were going to tear my toe apart.... I was not all smiley as I was still processing the idea that the crazy old little French man was about to cut off a part of my toe!

When he was finally ready to start, he told me not to look. Good idea. So I looked up at the ceiling and concentrated on it really hard. It didn't hurt too bad, but I could still feel the instruments on my skin... The nurse and doctor tried to help me keep my mind off it at first, asking me where I was from and why I was here. I responded to them in French--if I had to think about the French I didn't have to think about the toe... The Nurse watched me to let the doctor know if I was in too much pain.

There's a phrase in French, "Ça Va." Usually when I say it it mean's "How's it going?" And "Ça Va bien" is it's going good. But in this room "Ça Va?" meant, "Are you dying of pain yet?" And my panicked "Ça Va! Ça Va!" Was outwardly an "I'm good! I'm fine!" But was inwardly an "Oh my gosh oh my gosh just get this dumb thing over with!!" I said Ca va more times then than I have said the whole time I've been here.

After a half hour or so of chopping and cutting, the doctor finally announced that he was done. My toe was a bloody mess, and as soon as it was cleaned it was wrapped up in gauze, so I have nothing to say about the battle scar I am going to have... But as the nurse wrapped up my poor foot, the doctor told me that I was going to have to relax and keep my foot elevated ..... until Monday. Trying to sound lighthearted but really feeling broken-hearted, I said "so... this means no walking around and exploring Paris this weekend...?"

He said "Ha ha ha.... no."

I was crushed... I had so many plans for the weekend... we were going to Versaille on Sunday for General Conference, Saturday I was going to have the best Hot Chocolate in the world and stroll though a garden with my roommate and see Le Louvre at La Nuite Blanche, a night where everything is open all night long, and that night, Friday night, I was going with the group to see the area where the Moulin Rouge is.... But now I was going to have to sit in bed all the stupid weekend long, borrowing my roommates computer when I could because mine is broken until Tuesday, hitting my head against the wall wishing I was in the city....

Then comes the cherry on top. As the nurse wrapped up my foot she strongly emphasised that I could NOT get it wet. It was raining outside, and since my tennis shoe was too small she gave me a bunch of skimpy little bootie things that were supposed to keep my foot dry until I got home. I don't know if she thought I was driving home or what....

So I thought I'd take a different way home, getting off the bus at the first metro stop I came to, because traveling underground is dryer with less wandering around (the metro is a lot easier to figure out than the bus).

Keep in mind that I'm going off two different maps, one for the bus, one for the metro, assuming if the stops have the same name, they have the same stop.

I got off the bus and couldn't find the metro. Every person I asked made it sound like it was right there, "just down the street and to the left." I was getting nervous and trying to walk on my heel to keep my toes dry, hopping on one foot from time to time. Finally I took the plastic bag that the nurse had given me to hold my shoe in and stuck my foot in, tying the top of it just below the knee.

For an hour I walked around Paris with a bag on one foot, in the rain, muttering to myself about how mad I was. I might as well have been a crazy homeless person.

So looking back... I guess it was a memorable experience..... and I'm counting my blessings: I have two more months here to catch up on what I was supposed to do this weekend, General Conference can be watched online because technology is so amazing, I have an awesome roommate who lets me borrow her computer and who goes to the store and buys food for me so I won't go hungry, I now have some time for my Billy Jean (my guitar), and, hopefully!, I will someday be able to wear heels again....

...And someday I will be sitting at Angelina's, gazing off into the sunset as I sip my perfect hot cocoa, and I will live happily ever after....

The End