Torture

Never again, I thought. I am never, ever going to cause myself an ingrown toenail.

That was six years ago.

It just happened again.

I cut my toenails back in November. My big toenails grow with a curve, and last month I didn´t keep in mind that life lesson I learned when I was in 10th grade. The day after cutting – Monday – my toes were fine. Two days later, though, my greatest fear returned: it was ingrown. It´ll grow out, I thought. I lied to myself for three weeks -- it will heal on its own, no painful clinic visit involved.

Then, last week, I attempted to perform self-surgery by trying to cut off the jagged piece that was growing into my skin. It appeared successful, for about a day. But the sharp pain returned, reminding me constantly every time I put pressure on my toe that I need to cut my toenails straight across, not try to remove every last bit of growth. At times unbearable, I walked with a limp. I felt no pain while barefoot or in sandals.

Then, this past weekend, I promised myself, -now-. Conveniently, Mexico City has no shortage of podiatrists. In fact, I found three within two blocks of my apartment. All of them were closed on Sunday, however, and I had to work Monday, so I decided to wait until yesterday, when I was in Santiago, Veracruz, for Christmas, to get it fixed.

Forty minutes waiting at the small, private clinic and the doctor didn't arrive. Ahmed and his mom asked the receptionist when the doctor arrived.

It sounded flakey, "well, I think one of the assistants sent a text message."

"Can't you call him then and ask when he'll arrive?"

"No, we can't call cell phones from the landline."

The inconveniences of Mexico's phone service. I said, forget it, I'll wait until tomorrow, and we left. Then Ahmed´s mom recognizes the doctor pulling up in his car. We run/limp back to the clinic, the doctor looks at my toe --it's infected-- and says he'll give me antibiotics and it'll be fine.

I say, no, it's ingrown and pushing into my skin, so the doctor, with no hesitation, says,

"Alright, then we'll take out the entire toenail. Are you diabetic?"

"No."

We go to a small operating room, where I climb up onto the bed, the nurse puts my foot on the tray. I'm sitting up, and she says, "Lie down".The doctor orders the nurse to gather anasthesia. I stay calm.

Then, he sanitizes my toe with alcohol. I feel a little prick, and a needle entering my body, shooting me up with local painkillers.

"Are you diabetic?" he asks again.

"No."

Then another prick, this one more painful, and then another, the most painful. I'm calm, but I can almost feel bits of calcium come off as I grind my teeth, and I squeeze my hands together, cracking my knuckles simultaneously as he gives me a third injection. Then a fourth, and he quickly inserts something between my toenail and my skin. I can feel pressure and pain, but nothing as stinging as the anasthesia. He asks me if it hurts, and I say yes. I think, what does it matter if it hurts, you're going to pull it out anyway and you've already loaded me with painkiller.

The doctor clamps the tweezers, or whatever he is using, and lifts my toenail from its place and pulls it out in one piece. I can see Ahmed and his mom from the corner of my eyes and they grimace. Later they tell me there was a little blood, as if I were sweating out a few drops.


"Ya?" (It's out?) I ask the doctor.

"Ya."

That was quick, I think. The whole process took less than five minutes. Those stinging moments of pain were some of the most intense I've felt.The nurse cleans and bandages my toe, then I limp out of the OR, clumsily, and the doctor writes me up a prescription on his typewriter.

He's very to-the-point, even curt.

"Name?"

"Bronson Pettitt, with four t's."

He writes it like Petttit, but it doesn't matter.

"When should I start on the antibiotics?"

"Now. It's going to start hurting once the anaesthesia wears off."

"Was it ingrown?"

"Yes, very ingrown."

"Can I see it?"

"Of course."

I hobble into the OR and ask the nurse. She grabs a piece of dressing and picks up my toenail from the floor. It's extremely curved, nearly a semi-circle. The edge is jagged on the ingrown side, with two sharp points that pierced my skin whenever I pressured my toe.

This perfectly removed big toenail would look creepy if I sent it to one of my enemies with a note that said, "This is only the beginning." Luckily for them, I have no enemies.

I wobble back into the doctor's office and he gives me an antibiotic and an
inflammatory. For the pills and operation, 350 pesos, or about $27 dollars, no insurance.

All in all, the same treatment I would've got in the U.S. -- maybe here a little cruder, but clean and efficient no less -- and at least ten times less expensive. I like to think that this time around, I learned my lesson.


On a side note, I´ve been in Mexico six months today. Later, highlights on my time here.