I should have listened to my wife


		Friday, Jan. 14, 2005

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I should have listened to my wife

Father David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church, which meets at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. Sundays. “Snail mail” requests for prayer may be sent to him at the church at 4881 E. Hwy. 34, Sharpsburg, GA 30277. E-mail requests may be sent to frepps@ctkcec.org.

By Father DAVID EPPS
Contributing Writer

It all started about eight weeks ago with a very slight pain in the big toe of my right foot. That wasn't particularly uncommon. That twinge usually signaled that I needed to trim the toenail. The problem is that my big right toe has been a candidate for an ingrown toenail for years.

My youngest son, James, had an ingrown toenail when he was a teenager. Finally, we took him to a podiatrist where they numbed his toe and then clipped about a third of the toenail off, killed off that part of the root, and insured that he wouldn't have that trouble again. The trouble was that, when the doctor plunged the needle into the tip of his toe, I nearly lost my lunch. I made some excuse which wasn't, "I'm going to puke so I have to go to the bathroom," and then rushed to the bathroom where, thankfully, I resisted the urge to regurgitate.

That memory was in my mind when, eight weeks ago, I failed to clip the toenail properly, insuring that an ingrown toenail was on the way. I did what most men do when faced with a medical problem. I ignored it hoping it would go away. Eventually, the toe turned a bright crimson and the skin began to peel. And, when the toe came into contact with a solid object, such as a sock or a strong breeze, pain shot through my foot like a hot knife, causing my teeth to clench and my eyes to water.

After about two weeks, I decided to show my wife my toe. "You have an ingrown toenail," she said. She also pointed out that the toe was infected. I needed to do two things, she said. I needed to soak the foot in salt water and I needed to go to the doctor. My wife is a registered nurse and, with a master's degree and Ph.D. in nursing, is a professor at the State University of West Georgia where she teaches at both the undergraduate and graduate levels.

I did what most men do when they receive good advice from their wives. I ignored her.

The toe got worse, of course, but the thought of a needle being jammed into the red, almost purple, super-sensitive tip of my inflamed toe was enough to keep me in denial. My life's goal began to be, "Stub not thy toe." I made it through the Christmas season and New Year's Day but, when building a fire in the fireplace, I dropped an oak log on my big right toe. Until that moment, I did not know that one could scream, "Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus!" and have it sound like a swear word. That was the day I gave up. I called Crossroads Podiatry for an appointment and began to soak the foot in hot salt water. Soaking the foot actually made the toe feel better and reduced the inflammation. My wife resisted the temptation to say, "I told you so," and indicated pleasure that I finally had an appointment.

Last Monday, the staff of Dr. Everett J. Mason III greeted me warmly and told me that they read my columns. "Darn," I thought, "now I have to pretend to be brave." Later, my secretary said that, if they read the columns, they already knew I was a wuss when it came to needles. Before long, I was seated in the chair in the examination room where the assistant explained more than I wanted to know about what was going to happen. Then Dr. Mason came in and inspected my toe. Yes, it was definitely an ingrown toenail and it was definitely infected. And, no, thanks be to God, he was not going to plunge a needle into the tip of my poor, infected toe. What he did do was to spray my toe with a cold, numbing substance and then give me five injections around the base of the toe. It stung briefly, but not nearly as bad as I expected. The doctor left the room for about ten minutes to give the medication time to work and then returned to take care of the pitiful mass of inflamed flesh at the end of my foot.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and felt — nothing. I gloriously and blissfully felt — nothing! In fact, in less than five minutes it was all over. I had put on the headphones of a CD player to distract myself and, before the first song was over, the procedure was finished. This time when I mentally said, "Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus," it didn't sound like a swear word. I was so relieved and so impressed by the care I received and the near painlessness of the procedure, that I told Dr. Mason I was going to write an article about the whole experience. I'm not sure he believed me but I believe in "giving honor to whom honor is due."

I won't be punting the football for a few days, but every waking moment is no longer spent passionately guarding my big right toe! I can build a fire without fear, and my sock is no longer my enemy. And I think I am going to start listening to my wife, especially in medical matters. She's pretty smart, she is.