Dr. B has no idea why my foot is not healing up. She suggests I contact a vascular specialist, in case it’s a case of a circulation blockage. “The infection may have damaged your capillaries,” she says. She pauses. “Let me see if Dr. G. has a moment.”
Dr. G. is her colleague who performed my surgery in the hospital. He takes one look at the toe and says, “Looks like the bone is infected. The toe will probably have to come off.” I start to breathe heavily and cross my arms to keep from sobbing.
“I don’t think so,” Dr. B. says, an edge to her voice. “Look closer, the bone’s not exposed at all. I think it's okay.” Dr. G. puts on gloves and starts kneading the toe, feeling the wound.
“You’re right,” he says. “Sorry man, I may have jumped the gun.” He grins and claps me on the shoulder and turns to Dr. B. “What do the x-rays look like?” She looks away. “You did x-rays, right?”
Ten minutes later the assistant leads me to the x-ray room. Dr. B returns with an iPad. She shows me the images of my foot and explains that it looks like Dr. G was right after all. The bone looks infected and the best course of action is to have the toe removed.
“Antibiotics are only effective on soft tissue,” she says. “The longer we wait, the greater the risk of this spreading, and you will almost certainly lose your entire foot.” She stares at me, not saying anything for a minute. She has big, beautiful brown eyes. I feel like she expects me to say something. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she says, “But you shouldn’t wait too long.”
A friend encourages me to try calling my old doctor for a second opinion. I hadn’t seen her in years and the only reason I've been going to the other clinic is because it’s the only place my primary doctor had been able to get me in.
When I call, the office assistant says she can’t get me an appointment until I pay my bill from eight years ago. “I’m amazed it didn’t go to collections,” she says. “I’d say 'Praise the Lord' if I actually believed in such things.” It’s an odd thing to say for someone who works at a Catholic hospital, but four minutes later I’m four hundred and forty dollars poorer and have and have an appointment four days from now. I should buy a lottery ticket. My friend insists on giving me the money. I’m grateful but feel incredibly guilty. I’m already asking so much from everyone. I know they care about me and want to help but I hate it. I hate being the needy one, the one who's always sick, always in crisis. The one who just can't get his act together. Nothing feels quite as pathetic as being pitied.
But this is one of the only doctors I’ve ever liked. She actually listens, and you can practically see her thoughts turning while she does. I figure she’ll probably tell me the same thing Dr. B. did, but if she can do the surgery, I’d feel a little easier about the whole thing.
She takes new x-rays and comes in and does indeed confirm that the bone is infected and the toe will have to be lopped off. I briefly explain some of the issues I’ve been having with the clinic. "They either hate each other or are sleeping together," I say. "Maybe both. I feel like I'm stuck in a soap opera." I ask if she or someone in her office can do the surgery. She says she’s sorry but everyone there is booked for months in advance.
“Things are nuts around here, my dear,`” she says, with that slight lisp I haven't heard in so long. It's been eight years. The skin at the edges of her mouth is crinkled now. “We can’t get caught up. I know you don’t love your doctor but if they can do this soon, you should let them. Don’t wait.” She presses her delicate hand against my shoulder, right where Dr. G. clapped me with his meaty paw. Then she’s gone.
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