Next Monday—roughly 60 years, I think, after the inciting incident—I will visit a specialist who, I hope, will repair the damage done when my bare left foot slipped off a bike pedal and slammed perpendicularly onto an asphalt surface. The outcome of that unfortunate event, a perpetually ingrown nail on my hallux (AKA “big toe” or, in medical parlance, “great toe”) remains visible and painful all these years later. My memory of the original experience still causes me to wince, even after so much time has passed. When I jammed that toe onto the street, the nail broke cleanly across the base at the matrix, where the nail joins the toe. The nail lifted completely from the nail bed at the lunula, but stayed barely attached, all the way to the end of the nail. During the ensuing week or two, the nail detached completely, leaving the nail bed completely exposed. Eventually, the nail grew back, but the injury must have significantly and permanently transformed the growth pattern. I have coped the with intermittent pain of an ingrown nail for about 60 years, but the discomfort has worsened recently. Certain shoes that once simply exacerbated the pain now make the experience far worse. The prospect of a painful intervention to resolve the problem now seems more tolerable than the likelihood of allowing the situation to become even more excruciating. I realize, of course, I should have dealt with the matter many years ago; that would have saved me countless hours of intense discomfort. Apparently, I am capable of fear-driven idiocy.
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After yesterday’s appointment with my oncologist, we drove the few miles down the Scenic 7 Byway to Jessieville for lunch at The Shack, a dive of a diner across from the Jessieville school district building complex. My club sandwich was messy but extremely satisfying. Mi novia expressed a similar level of appreciation for her patty melt on buttered white toast. The Shack used to be mentioned frequently in conversation among people in Hot Springs Village with whom I spent time. For some reason, though, I rarely hear it mentioned much any more; perhaps it’s because I do not get out much nowadays. It may be that my aging cohort of acquaintances has grown far less likely to go out for hamburgers, among the most popular attractions of The Shack. Or it could be the prevalence of flies buzzing around inside the big picture windows where the booths are situated. I find the flies more than a little annoying but tolerable when encountered only on rare occasions.
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Speaking of my oncologist, she plans to schedule me for another PET-scan within the next few weeks. It may be just my imagination, but her demeanor suggests to me that she thinks the procedure might reveal an acceleration in cancer development. I hope it’s just my imagination. What, exactly, is hope? Here is a definition I encountered online: “the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.” The word is then presented in an example in that context: “to give up hope.” When I mentioned my recent night-sweats to my oncologist (which she calls “nocturnal diaphoresis” in her visit summary), she decided she wanted to do a “blood culture” test to determine whether bacteria, fungi, or other microorganisms might be present in my blood. She explained that the blood used in the test must include blood drawn from a needle in the arm…not blood drawn from the infusion port. After five tries, the nurses were able to draw enough blood for the test; they apologized for the multiple “sticks,” though I know my veins have become difficult to tap, so I did not blame them. I mentioned my ingrown toenail during today’s session; she documented it as “onychocryptosis.” Back to the cancer clinic in one week for follow-up.
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The female cardinal outside my window, with her orange beak and her black mask, cannot hide her suspicions about what lies on this side of the windows. She would, if she could, hold me at gunpoint while she and her flock of aggressive companions ransack the cupboard, looking for seeds and nuts. But cardinals have not yet devolved the way we have, to the point of relying on weapons to persuade their intended victims to willingly feather their nests. Crows, on the other hand, clutch concealed knives under their wings, prepared to defend their right to harass interlopers who dare to challenge them for airspace. Roadrunners, with terrified snakes dangling from their beaks, dash in and out of mountainside desert topography littered with unexploded land mines and live grenades. Storks, carrying human babies wrapped in cloth diapers, attempt to escape the turmoil by nonchalantly gliding above low clouds. Hummingbirds, their tiny wings buzzing like angry wasps high on cocaine, plunge their long beaks into trumpet vine flowers, while English bulldogs observe from a distance as they smoke fat Cuban cigars in celebration of the cremation of a particularly ugly, dangerous, and disgusting American politician. The pungent, unmistakable smell of the last of the old-style camera flashbulbs popping as photographs are taken signals the end of an era. “Touché,” the artists shout, as their palettes dry in the suffocating heat. The birds respond with noises cannibals make, just as the curtain closes and the audience raises their gin gimlets in salute.
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Absurdities often paint pictures otherwise hidden among melancholy shadows dressed in green eyeliners and black lipstick.
