MEDICINE FOR MY SOLE

Or, if you're Errol Flynn, dating a 16 year-old girl
when you're 50 and look 80.

There are moments a man realizes he's reached another plateau in the aging process. Disliking every Top 40 song he hears. Dreading the first prostate exam.  Women with gray hair flirting with you.

I've experienced all these and more. And last week marked my latest step into life's final chapter, as I added yet another specialist whose job is to keep me alive -- or in this case, able to walk without wincing. 

I now have my very own podiatrist. 

"You cannot cut or injure the foot"? Trust me,
I'd find a way.

Is there anything more embarrassing than having to visit a podiatrist, the doctor whose occupation is synonymous with "orthopedic shoes", i.e., ugly sneakers? Well yes, "chiropodist" comes to mind. A quick look shows they're essentially the same thing, the term "chiropodist" being the more old-school word. But both folks are still concerned with senior citizen-affiliated afflictions like bunions, corns, and, in my case, plantar warts. 

Until fairly recently, I though the word was "planter" -- y'know, gardeners who are on their feet all day planting. Which is why I didn't at first believe my wife (the nurse) who explained what they were after one thoroughly disgusted look at my soles. Not to be confused with other women who did the same thing looking into my soul.

With a combination
like that, I'll pretend
I've got corns instead
of warts.

Early on I tried getting rid of them by erasing them with a pumice stone. The only thing that did was make me feel like I was working at a prehistoric mani-pedi spa. I tried freezing them off with Compound W, which acted more like Compound Z (as in Zero). 

Rather than suffer in silence, I decided to do it out loud. So between my obnoxious moans with every barefoot step and my wife's disgust with the warts -- which was weird because she insisted on looking at them -- I made an appointment with a nearby podiatrist who was well-educated, had great reviews on Zodoc, and most importantly accepted my insurance.

Entering the waiting room was a shock. I'm technically a senior citizen, but the guys -- and they were all guys -- who were seeing other podiatrists in the office were old. Even when I visit my hematologist, there are some patients who weren't alive yet to see the Bicentennial. But the podiatrist's joint? Some of them looked like they around to celebrate the first 4th of July. 

Like father, like Stooge. 

In an effort to distract myself from being surrounded by a roomful of Piltdown Men, I studied the obligatory celebrity photos one finds in New York doctors' offices (and barbershops). What impressed me most was a vintage picture of Paul Howard, which he helpfully captioned "SON OF MOE". If you had told me when I was a seven-year-old fan of the Three Stooges that over 60 years later I would be at a podiatrist's office visited by Moe Howard's son, I wouldn't have understood what the hell you just said. (My friend Leo thought the guy should write an autobiography just to title it Son of Moe.)

It didn't take long to be ushered from the Methuselah Room and into the
doctor's office. She put me at ease pretty quickly; this was someone who enjoyed her job, which was not only a good thing but very unusual. Who wants to get out of bed every morning looking forward to working on the feet of total strangers? Old strangers at that.

Before I had a chance to ask her that question, she started slicing off the warts and dabbing the skin with some kind of acid. Expecting a footful of pain -- she was slicing stuff off my feet and dabbing them with acid -- I was relieved to feel nothing. 

"How many more times?!"

So when it was time to hit them with a laser? Bring it on, it's only a light! 

Sure. A light with the power of a thousand suns, hitting the areas of my feet that were still raw from being sliced. Gripping the chair's armrests until they were on the verge of snapping off, twisting myself into a shape worthy of Lon Chaney in West of Zanzibar, I put up with the minute of zapping until the job was done.

Wait, did I say "job done"? I meant "job to be continued", as I was informed we needed to go through this again every two weeks up to 12 times.

I even had homework! After folding a kidney-shaped pad, she cut a half circle from its side and, unfolding it, stuck it on the sole of my right foot -- which had the biggest wart -- and gave me a dozen or so more. I was to do this routine at home and keep it there all day except in bed or the shower. And no walking around the apartment in my bare feet! 

Next week I'm visiting the dermatologist to get a few things sliced from my face, jawline and possibly scalp. This happens on a fairly regular basis. Between the dermatologist and podiatrist, there might not be much of me left in six months, but at least I'll be smooth as a baby's bottom. Or foot.

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