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Wednesday, June 23, 2004 - 2:50 p.m.

The Toe Chronicles

Let's just say that reports of my left little toe's demise were greatly exaggerated.

I stubbed it something good last Wednesday, let me tell you. Barefoot, I smashed it flush on a tenth-of-an-inch faux-marble slab in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. It's there, I imagine, to account for the change in flooring from tile to wood and to cover up the unsightly crease.

It created an unsightly change of colors on my foot and inspired a string of unseemly words to spew forth from my mouth. So I put on a sock and went to work, limping more and more as the day went on.

I got home that night, took off my sneakers and socks, and saw a red, swollen toe with nice discoloration on either side. Definite bruising; definite bleeding under the skin. I curled my toes.

When I regained consciousness after the pain knocked me out (not true; mere exaggeration), I determined I had certainly, definitely, absolutely broken a bone down there. I limped into the kitchen, grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, and propped myself up on the couch awaiting Casey's return from work.

A veteran of many toe stubbings herself, she concurred with my assessment and valiantly volunteered to venture out to the drug store to procure me some tape and gauze which would allow me to tape the toe to its neighbor and keep it straight an immobile, enhancing the healing process.

Each morning, I removed the tape, inspected the various changes in coloring, showered, and re-taped the toe. I checked the internet for what to do for a broken toe and made sure I didn't notice it turning blue or white or become numb or tingly -- all conditions that warranted a call to the doctor or an immediate trip to the hospital. I did my best to elevate my foot as much as possible, even just a foot or two off the floor (since I couldn't accomodate the suggested above the head level) and I made sure to notice any tingling or throbbing. I also gingerly pressed the side of my sneaker to make sure there was still feeling in the toe, getting confirmation each time as my nerves screamed, "YES! We're still here!"

I wouldn't let the toe slow down my plans, however. On Thursday I ventured into the City for a Dido/John Mayer free concert at Bryant Park (I was there in an official capacity, securing access to the controlled press area right up by the stage), but we left as the downpour intensified. I'd been on my feet for about two hours, more than at any point since the injury. On Saturday, Casey spent the afternoon in New York with Kerry while I waited for Dave to arrive at our apartment before he and I drove beneath the Hudson. We made our way to a bar on 8th Avenue to await calls from Casey and Heather, in town for just the weekend. A drink turned into two while we watched the Yankees and Dodgers and hoped for another Hideki Matsui home run -- only because this bar serves a round on the house when either the Yankees' Hideki or the Mets' Kaz Matsui hits a home run. Unfortunately, we'd arrived in the bottom of the first, moments after Hideki went deep in the top of the inning. After about an hour, the ladies had arrived and we headed to the Village for dinner, then to the Upper West Side for the send-off of one of my co-workers.

My toe wasn't going to keep me from drinking with my friends.

Over the weekend, Casey expressed her concern. "I've never seen mine turn those colors," she said, drawing on her vast experience. "I think you should go to the doctor." Inside, I acknowleged that the piece of mind I'd gain from a doctor visit would be worth it. That way, I'd know for sure and perhaps have a timetable for my recovery. Making it easier was that I didn't have to make an appointment; nor would there be any bloodwork involved or a diagnosis that my cholesterol was sky-high and I'd have to cut back -- or cut out -- all cheeses, pastas and hamburgers.

On Monday I walked in and received praise from the nurse for my "buddy taping" job. She asked how I knew to do that, and I explained that not only did Casey know, but I checked online and recalled it from my days as an athlete. "You look like you're in good shape," she said. Huh. Funny. I never thought someone in the medical profession would see it that way.

The doctor came in and saw my toe was straight and explained that the bleeding could have resulted from a deep bruising or a hairline fracture, as well as a complete fracture. The only way to know for sure would be to head up the street to the hospital for an X-ray.

During the display for the nurse and doctor, I noticed less pain in removing the sock and gauze. I could also bend my toes more, not to mention move the little toe laterally -- something I never realized I could do before. (Try it. Try to make your little toe, on either foot, move outwardly. I can do it much better with my left foot than my right, as can Casey. She figures it's related to the whole left brain/right brain thing.)

With an illegible prescription for an X-ray in hand, I drove down the street to Holy Name Hospital, a suburban facility that looks like a parking deck adjacent to a college building in the suburbs. It's hard to describe, but it's in a residential neighborhood in the suburbs rather than a business stretch of a highway or something.

Up in the radiology waiting area, I sat among patients waiting an hour for their CAT scans. They had plastic pitchers and cups with a drink they were required to finish before their tests. I hoped for the best for all of them. It was the first time I've been in a hospital for myself since I cut my arm with an blade while opening a box of grapes during my summer job at the local produce market during one high school summer. It was my first trip to any hospital since my father's surgery a few years ago. Honestly, I was relieved to be there for something so minor.

After 15 minutes of watching CNN report on SpaceShipOne's attempt to breach the atmosphere (I saw only the early coverage, when the rocket was still attached the plane as it climbed high above the Mojave Desert), I was called into a room smaller than some broom closets where a woman registered me. In addition to the questions of my name, address, date of birth, etc., I was asked my religion. I was startled momentarily, wondering what the right answer was at a place called Holy Name. I mean, I knew what it was, but would I receive lesser treatment or be made to wait longer if I gave an answer considered less worthy? Did it mean anything coming from a woman whom, if I was asked to guess, I would've described as Jewish with my first try? "Methodist," I answered, glad I stuck with my upbringing. I figured "Catholic" would have also been an acceptable answer, considering Dad's confirmation and my four years at Notre Dame.

Told they were usually pretty quick to get to X-ray patients, I returned to the waiting area for maybe another 15 minutes, then followed a quite hairy assistant and a bearded, earringed supervisor into an X-ray room. Told to sit on the table, the hairy orderly took the first picture of my foot placed flat on the panel holding the film. The next two, he had me rotate my foot on its side (the outside) and then ripped off a two-foot length of white athletic tape, which he put between my little toe and its neighbor with the sticky side facing the injured toe. He handed me the two ends and had me pull and hold to move the other four toes out of the way to get a side shot of the toe in question.

The bearded doctor came out from behind the wall to ask, "How did you get injured?" I told him and the smirk on his face told me that I probably didn't need to be there. But what do I care? That's what insurance is for.

After the two pictures of the side of my toe were taken, I was free to go, sent back down the elevator to the hotel lobby-like main entrance and out to my car.

Yesterday, I got the call from the doctor's office: "Negative for a fracture." Just bruising. Each day it's feeling markedly better and I'm able to walk faster and more normally. I've still got it wrapped to its neighbor, if for no other reason than to keep it from moving too much, since it does still hurt a bit.

It might not be healed enough to dance extensively at this weekend's wedding on Long Island, but at least I won't be limping back and forth to the bar.

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