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My last story about toes ended with my podiatrist popping off both my big toenails, because they were extremely ingrown. (By the way, welcome to all of the new subscribers, most of whom probably weren’t expecting me to write about toes.)

The doctor said that my toenails would grow back, though they would be narrower than before, because he cauterized the edges of the nail roots (creepy!). Toenails with the edges removed, he promised, “basically never come back ingrown.” So, according to him, I was making my last-ever visit to his office, and I was heading toward a fantastic foot future.

The events in that story took place about a year ago. One year is also about how long it takes to regrow a big toenail in its entirety. At the nine month mark, I discovered a couple things: (1) my left toenail was nowhere to be found (I guess the doctor had removed it permanently, though I don’t remember him saying that was the plan), and (2) my right big toenail, which was mostly grown back, had suddenly succumbed to the forces of gravity and gotten embedded in my toe skin at the top. As a result, my right toe was red, swollen, and hurting enough to wake me up at night.

Every medical office waiting room I regularly visit has its own unique character. The headache clinic waiting room is quiet, dark, and overly hushed. They keep half the lights off at all times. The infusion center, where I go every few months for a migraine prevention treatment, is decorated with fizzled-out patient morale initiatives: a coloring station with a single coloring sheet and one brown crayon, flyers advertising long-finished meditation classes, out-of-order vending machines. The podiatry waiting room is, by contrast, vaguely reminiscent of Tuscany. The wooden chairs are painted green, and the walls are done up in a faux stucco style with blush-colored paint. Unfortunately, the rustic, country villa vibe is diminished by the display of clunky, supportive shoes and the TV playing foot-related product infomercials on a loop. Everyone in the waiting room wears either shoes matching those on the display rack or sandals, to give space for bandages. 

I was in the sandal-wearing group when I went back in last month, because I was prepared to beg the doctor for an on-the-spot, complete, permanent removal of my stuck toenail. After checking in, I sat down next to a man wearing Tevas who had very long, yellow toenails. As if this wasn’t intimidating enough (I suffer from acute podophobia), the man was also yelling into his phone.

“You’re screwing me over, Dean,” he said.“You made $5,000 on this deal and I’m out $9,800. You can’t unwind this, Dean! I don’t wanna hear about how you’re broke and all that crap. You owe me $9,800, that’s the bottom line!”

I tried not to make eye contact with Mr. Screwed-Over Tevas, but I couldn’t exactly look at his feet, nor did I want to risk looking at anyone else’s. So I stared down at my phone until my name was called.

“No more excuses!” the man yelled at Dean as I walked back into an exam room.

My usual podiatrist was out of town, so as I waited to meet the other podiatrist who worked in this office, I prepared to put on my no-nonsense persona. Having seen many doctors, I’ve learned to be ready for anything when talking with one I haven’t met before. Some are sympathetic, good listeners. Others are rehearsed and mechanical, not wanting to say the wrong thing and, therefore, not saying much of anything at all. And then there are the pushy doctors, the ones who try to guilt-trip me or force me into doing (or not doing) something. The podiatrist who removed my toenails before was in the latter group—he was convinced that I was too young to permanently remove both of my toenails, and that I’d regret it later. After all, what if I needed one of them for something? At the time, his insistence took me so off guard that I agreed to let my toenail grow back. With this doctor, I intended to be ready.

You’re screwing me over, doc! I imagined saying to the new podiatrist when he walked in. Do you understand what living with chronic pain is like? I don’t wanna hear about how I’ll want toenails later on and all that crap. No more excuses! And besides, I know my rights! (I didn’t actually, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t be forced to keep my toenail against my will.)

Then the podiatrist walked in and, with one glance at my toe, agreed to remove my toenail.

“Your chart says you have chronic pain, so you don’t want to deal with ingrown nails, right?”

I was surprised at his comprehension of my situation, though somewhat disappointed that I didn’t get to lecture him. But according to this doctor, I actually have curved toe bones, meaning the tips of my toes are higher than the roots, like upside-down chicken feet. My nail wasn’t getting lazy and giving in to gravity, it was just growing straight out and running into my curvy toe. This was why it ought to be permanently removed. He said this as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which left me wondering how it took THREE prior toenail surgeries before getting to this point.

“Did you know that pulling out toenails was one of the earliest forms of torture?” the doctor said as he shot lidocaine into my toe, ignoring my desperate cries for mercy. This made me think of Dean, and the $9800. If threatened with toenail removal, or even with more lidocaine shots in the toe (which feel like forcing an army of angry fire ants under your skin), I’d cough up twice that amount without hesitation.

With both my left and right big toenails now completely behind me, I feel a full ten pounds lighter. After all, I still have eight toenails—all the low-maintenance ones—and high hopes that I’m really, truly done going to the waiting room full of ugly feet.

The only problem now? Well, chronic migraines. Also, my feet look pretty weird. This is what brought me to the idea of getting toe tattoos. If you’ve gotten toe tattoos of your own, please let me know how much pain I’m in for, on a scale of zero to angry fire ants.

No word on Dean. I hope he’s ok.

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