For about a month now I've been thinking I ought to call the podiatrist. My fourth toe hurts--felt squeezed in tap dance class, and I thought: "Oh, it's a blister." Then, "Oh, it's an old lady thing. Must be a corn." But then I thought: "Jeez, what if the cancer's back! What if I go to the podiatrist and she cuts off a callus here, a lump there, and I.Spread. Cancer.Cells."
So I didn't go to the podiatrist. I talked myself into thinking I probably just had some version of the side effects listed on my Big Pharma pill box: numbness around the edges of my feet and hands.
But I emailed the oncologist, who remarked that I might be experiencing a "known lesion," suggesting a neurologist, who examined my feet, made me push them hard against his hands, dig my heels into the examination table, walk a straight line--all this as I was reflecting on why I'd failed to check Dr. Google before worrying my oncologist.
By the time I got to the neurologist, I'd learned from Dr. Google that the incidence of cancer returning to a toe bone is less than 1%.
But I already had the appointment . . .
The technician set me up for what looked like an EKG, only the little red and yellow plastic leads were attached to my legs and feet, or rather to metal disks glommed on to my legs. I don't know why I started to wonder whether this would hurt, but I asked.
"Not hurt, exactly," she said, "but it's uncomfortable."
"YEOUCH!" I said, as electricity coursed through my leg. Again. And again. And . . . I thought of the mafia's preferred methods of torture.
"Sorry, I have to do this ten times," said the technician. When she was done with one leg, we did the other. Then one arm.
Results: "Normal."
Then came the X-ray.
Results: "only" degenerative bone changes. I was right the first time. Old lady stuff. I'm overjoyed. It's not cancer again. Yet.
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