A tale of courage: Bravery at the foot doctor and my sock problem

Last year I noticed over several weeks that I was suffering from some discomfort when walking. The pain seemed to be emanating from my big toe. When I tried to examine it, it became clear that the toenail was the source of the problem.

It was too painful for me to attempt any sort of amateurish home remedy, so I did the sensible thing and booked an appointment with a chiropodist. The expert instructed me to take off my shoes and socks, gazed at my left foot and confirmed my worst fears – I had an ingrown toenail.

However, she assured me that the diagnosis should not be cause of any immediate alarm; there was no sign of infection and the rogue nail had not yet firmly embedded itself deeply in my flesh.

There was a sobering choice to be made. The chiropodist informed me that she could remove the offending part of the nail at that moment, or, if I preferred to have the procedure done under local anaesthetic, I could book another appointment.

I gave it little thought. I wanted the matter dealt with and, with the pressures of work, I was not confident I would be able to find another date anytime soon. Furthermore, it was a little bit of nail which had grown under my skin. How bad could the pain of removing it be?

I calmly and confidently told the specialist to proceed. As she approached my foot, I could see a glint of light reflecting off the sharp implement she held in one hand. I have always considered that I have a decent threshold of tolerance for physical pain. I comforted myself with this thought as she began to probe.

"This might pinch a bit,” she said, in the same soothing and reassuring voice I use when trying to persuade my son to do his homework.

I felt a little bit of pain, but it was bearable. I smiled bravely. Then the discomfort grew. Then it became intensely sore. And then….."Argh!!!! Awwwwwwww!!!! Eeeeeee!!!! Oooohoooohoooohoooo!!!!”

The foot that was not being sliced open flailed wildly. I kicked a box of plasters off a low metal table which made a hollow clanking sound as I collided with it. I stuck a fist into my mouth and fought back tears. I clenched my jaw tightly and bit deep into the knuckles of my hand.

“Got it!” the chiropodist declared brightly as she sat upright some moments later, holding up a pair of tweezers which gripped a piece of toenail the size of Greenland.

She seemed to notice my extreme discomfort and smiled sympathetically.

“You’ve been very brave.”

“Ow,” I whimpered, as I wiped away the moisture which had gathered at the corners of my eyes.

Months have passed since I manfully faced up to the ordeal. My foot has healed and the discomfort which I felt before has passed. Another problem has however arisen.

It is a delicate issue, but I will share it here.

The toenail has grown back in a different shape and texture than in its previous incarnation. While before it was smooth and flexible, now it is raggedy and rigid.

I have tried to trim it and file it back into its previous form, but it defies the nail scissors and seems determined to grow into a narrow and sharp point – not unlike the shape of a lance which may have been used in an ancient jousting contest.

There are consequences of this. I am known to move about when sleeping. Several times in recent months my wife has shaken me awake roughly and told me to stop stabbing her with my razor-sharp toe.

When I suggest that she may be exaggerating the point, she points to the collection of angry red welts, cuts and scrapes on the back of her leg.

But the bigger problem is with socks. Simply put, the sock does not seem to have been invented which can contain my lethal weapon of a toenail.

I noticed recently that whichever sock I wore on my left foot quickly developed a neat and circular hole right in the area where my big toe is.

I compensated for a while by switching the sock in which the material had been breached to the right foot, but this served only to ensure that the pair were both soon similarly pierced.

In truth, I have not previously given much thought in my life to socks. I am not sure I ever remember having to buy them. It’s the sort of thing that people tend to get me at Christmas because they can’t think of anything else.

I usually keep pairs of socks for many years and, until recently, had a drawer full of them. I am not fussy about style or symmetry either.

I have a corner dedicated to odd socks and every so often I will pair them off with the closest available match.

But I don’t much like wearing socks with holes in them. I find it uncomfortable and distracting.

However, my previously plentiful supply is dwindling rapidly, and I have found myself having to wear punctured socks on several occasions.

A hole which is small in the morning then expands through the day so that by the time I take the sock off at night by whole big toe is obtruding from the perforated material.

The obvious solution is to buy more socks. However, I hesitate because I don’t want to invest in garments which will be destroyed within weeks.

I even found myself Googling ‘disposable socks’. They do exist but seem to be mainly used by retailers who sell shoes.

Luckily it is summer, and I can get away with going barefoot in sandals. I continue to clip, trim and file my toenail in the hope that it will soon recover its previous benign form.