Tag Archives: big toe

Bandage

Bandage: (n) a strip of material used to bind a wound or to protect an injured part of the body.Dictionary B

The reason “the truth makes you free” is that you do not have to exhaust yourself finding new hiding places for your stupidity.

During a particularly stubborn point in my life, I developed an infection in my left big toe.

I didn’t think much about it. At first it just looked like athlete’s foot. (Matter of fact, that’s what I called it. I was rather proud to be athletic enough to have a corresponding foot.)

But it got worse. It festered and then spread to my nearby toe, so I had two little fellas who were now unable to go to market.

My denial increased.

I did not want to go to the doctor with it because I felt ridiculous asking a man of medicine to deal with “my little piggies.”

It began to seep pus, having to be bandaged every day by a friend of mine, who was so gracious that she pretended it wasn’t a big deal.

After a while, it stunk.

She and I pretended like it didn’t, so as to keep propriety moving along properly. Then it started turning black.

That’s not good.

So I tried more home remedies, and convinced myself on a daily basis that it appeared to be healing. I even bought some silver over the Internet because it was referred to as an “old-fashioned antibiotic” that I could pour on the wound and believe I had discovered some great medical elixir of the gods.

My toe got so sick that it finally made all of me sick. I went to the hospital, but was too late to save the two toes, so they were amputated.

I hope I haven’t grossed you out with my story, and if you’re still reading it, you must have a great constitution.

But here’s the truth about bandages:

They were created to cover a wound while it’s healing … not disguise a wound that needs treatment.

 

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Amputate

dictionary with letter A

Amputate: (v): to cut off a limb, typically by surgical operation.

I have eight toes.

I started out with ten–a full complement. But when I got an infection in the big toe on my left foot and it spread to the next toe and threatened to become equally as evangelistic to all the surrounding little piggies, it became necessary for the doctor to come in and snatch two of ’em.

I was not favorable to this.

Even though the infection was threatening to go into gangrene, I had grown fond of having ten toes and considered it to be beneath me, as an intelligent individual, to trim down to eight.

It was explained to me that I didn’t really need ten toes–a similar conversation that young mothers have with their homely daughters when trying to point out the positive aspects of being plain.

I knew I didn’t need ten toes. (Well, I didn’t know, but I assumed that my feet would still work with eight.)

It’s just that I didn’t want to be weird.

I didn’t want to be that guy who was physically debilitated or weakened, making him seem a bit pitiful instead of powerful.

It’s not that a lot of people see your toes. Matter of fact, there are only certain occasions when such a revealing is even plausible.

But I saw–and my opinion matters to me.

But when it came down to a choice between dying or losing my two toes, I chose to bid farewell and bon voyage to the fellas.

It reminds me of an idea put forth in the Good Book: “If your right hand offends you, cut it off.” For it’s better to make it to heaven without a hand than to show up someplace else with a diseased appendage.

Interesting.

Of course, there are spiritual applications across the board–but I think one of the signs of maturity is knowing when to give up on things that are not working and cut them away before they taint and destroy everything else.

It’s never easy. After all, we grow accustomed to the face of our circumstance.

But as I sit here today–with eight toes–writing to you, I realize that it does not make a lot of difference.

Because even with eight … you can still keep your toes in the water.

 

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