Today I found out that I am part witch. The part of me that is witch is the part of me that made me hobble around; cry in pain through the twilight hours; and never, ever, ever tell another soul the embarrassing secret that was happening to the bottom of my foot.
That’s because I thought it was a corn. My mother thought it was a corn. My mother-in-law thought it was a corn. Google image search thought it was a — no, I can’t go back to that dark place. Anyway, even my primary care physician thought it was a corn. And that was embarrassing. Not only was it a corn, but it was a corn that would not be Epsom salt-bathed away, no matter how hard I pumiced.
That is how I ended up with a referral to the P-word, the foot specialist, the word we dare not say. There I sat in a giant airplane hangar, full of neutral colors and fake green plants and lots and lots of people waiting to see different specialists. I sat among a crowd of people who could barely stand up. (I watched them try. It was hard to watch.) My name was shouted and my blood pressure instantly shot through the roof. (Which as I said, was high enough to contain a jumbo jet.)
The nurse asked me some questions. What was my current level of pain? Did I feel safe at home? Have I had an unexplained weight gain? Are there guns in my home? Is there a religious affiliation that I would like them to note in case of…
“Excuse me. I’m here for my foot. Why would I need my rabbi?” I MAY have asked, “Am I going to die?” At the least, I was thinking it.
“Hmm, your blood pressure is pretty high,” the nurse noted, while I was pondering my imminent corn-fed demise.
She told me to take off my shoe and sock and sit in a massage chair. There was new age music playing. She said the doctor would be right in.
The doctor came in 20 minutes later. She was fifteen years old. I almost carded her. She had a scalpel, so I figured, sure, she was the doctor. She pushed some buttons and the massage chair moved around like a dentist chair. I stuck my foot in her face. “It’s a wart!” she proclaimed.
That’s when the big gun came out. The freeze gun. Doctor Goodfeet asked me if I was ready. I was not ready. But I said I was. Then the bullet hit the bone. Actually, the liquefied nitrogen hit the weird foot growth.
That was it. It was over. The massage chair never massaged me; my rabbi was a no-show.
And I’m no longer a witch.
Unless the procedure didn’t work. Then I get to go back and do it all over again. I’ll keep my rabbi on speed-dial.