In Which I At Least Look Tough

If you've been following this blog for a while, you know that I am no stranger to pain. Whether it is accidentally self-inflicted or not, I seem to be a glutton for punishment. If you're new to this site, you'll find quite a few stories scattered throughout the archives, should you take the time to do so, but if you want to get caught up on a few of them, though, here are three good examples (the broken toilet seat incident, the paper-cut-on-the-balls incident, and the infamous blue-balls incident).

Pain and I? Yeah. We are old friends.

In fact, Pain and I are such good friends, I decided it would be a good idea to deal with Pain on a daily basis, in the form of plantars warts on the bottom of my left foot.

The warts developed on my foot about two months before the last time The Boss and I moved in June. It was fairly painful to begin with, but I was hesitant to see my doctor for it right away. With all the time I'd have to spend on my feet schlepping everything we owned from one apartment to the next, I wanted to keep the pain to a minimum. Unfortunately for me, that meant delaying treatment for the warts until after the move was complete.

We finished moving on June 8th, but it wasn't until earlier this week that I finally saw my doctor about it.

(This would probably be a good time to mention that Procrastination and I have had an on-again-off-again relationship for a while, too. We go way back.)

After five months of walking around in constant pain, I finally told my doctor about the problem. I removed my shoe and sock, and held out my foot for him to see.

"Oh, no problem. I can take care of that," he said.

He leaves the "Finding Nemo"-decorated exam room for a moment, and comes back holding a sinister-looking device:

I've done my research, so I know what to expect. Nothing too high-tech here: The evil-looking spray can contains liquid nitrogen, which is sprayed on the warts. Doing so produces a blister underneath the skin that will, in turn and over time, force the warts up and out from under the surface.

Simple. He cups the bottom of my foot with one hand, and begins spraying in short bursts.

It's a little cold, but not too bad. No pain at all.

15 seconds later, he's still spraying. The cold is setting in.

It's starting to sting a little.

30 seconds later, he lets up on the spray. Feeling pretty cold now.

The pain is considerable, but bearable.

After about 45 seconds of spraying, he stops and lets it sit. He sets down the spray can and starts talking about setting up an appointment for a follow-up and physical. I can hear him talking, but I'm not listening because it is all I can do to not scream my fucking head off from the pain.

It. HURT.

The fun didn't stop there, though. There was another round of freeze-spray about a minute or two later. The burning heat (even though it was freezing cold) of the stuff as it blasted my skin at close range was almost too much.

I held my shit together until the doctor said his goodbyes and left the exam room, at which point I promptly lost my shit and scream-whispered many horrible and vulgar expletives, displaying my vast vocabulary that is not at all fit for an office where pediatric patients are often within earshot. Meanwhile, The Boss showed her sympathy and support by laughing and guffawing at my pain and misery.

I know this is one of those cases where it has to hurt worse before it can get better, and I was prepared for that. I guess I just didn't expect the actual freezing process to be as... excruciating.

As I grunted and grimaced through putting my sock and shoe back on, though, I spied something resting on the counter in the exam room that almost made the pain melt right away:

I think he's a stand-up guy, too.