I have no idea who has read the story and who hasn’t, and it doesn’t worry me. It’s available to be seen by all comers and that has freed me to discuss it with anyone who wishes to know more. In case you're interested, the story is here.
Now, perhaps I ought also to explain what happened to the other toes. Their stories are much more cheerful. I’m not saying that I laughed a lot at the time, but they were both accidents, so there’s no dark psychological stuff to wade through. No emotional health warnings.
I don’t mind if people ask me what happened; I just sometimes get bored telling the same old story over and over. For those of you who have heard my flagrantly fictitious flights of fancy focussed on the fate of my phalanges—or those who were too polite to ask—here is the definitive story. I can officially deny that their absence is due to frost-bite, shark-bite, snake-bite, vultures, or extra-terrestrial phalangephages.*
I like my odd-shaped foot—it’s part of who I am. If someone said they could give me a new set of toes, I’d refuse. I wouldn’t want to change. In case you’re wondering what my foot looks like, here’s a picture to get you in the mood for the story.
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* Phalangephages = Toe eaters. I think I might have made up this word. Sorry, I sometimes think in different languages. Phalanges are the bones of the fingers or toes. The first part of the word is derived from φάλαγξ (phalanx, plural phalanges) which refers to an ancient Greek army formation in which the soldiers stood side by side, like an arrangement of fingers or toes. The second part--phage—comes from the Greek word φάγος (phagos), plural φάγοι (phagoi), which means eater.
About a year after Linny died, I finally got my act together sufficiently to find somewhere else to live. It didn’t make sense to live alone in the house, so I found a considerably smaller garden flat. Of course, this meant an awful lot of packing and throwing out.
While I was sorting out things in the garage, I dropped a large metal-worker’s vice on my bare middle toe crushing the end of it. I mean, really crushing it—it was almost flat! My guess it that it was not more than five millimetres thick. Fortunately, I had already removed Toe Number 2, or I might have had two crush injuries to deal with. As it was, the stump actually got cut open and bled quite enthusiastically, as did Number 4. But I ignored them; I had other matters to contend with.
Having spent a month of the previous year dealing with hospitals, I really didn’t want to set foot in one ever again, or even in a doctor’s consulting room. Instead, I opted for treating the injury at home. I iced it until it was numb, and then picked out the shards of bone with a pair of tweezers which I had sterilised.
When I realised that what I had removed constituted most of the top bone and that all that was left was some shredded flesh, I put a rubber band around the base of the toe to establish a bloodless field, so I could see what I was doing. Then I sterilised a pair of fine-nosed pliers and pulled out the rest of the debris, including a large shard of metal. I trimmed the jagged ends of bone with sterilised wire-cutters (that hurt like fury!), and used nail scissors on the excess skin. After dousing the wound with antiseptic liquid, I sutured it with a sewing needle and dental floss. I thought of it as a do-it-yourself amputation, but, technically, I think it was actually a disarticulation, since it was through a joint.
I slept with my leg elevated for a few nights and took an occasional Panado, but it wasn’t a big deal. It healed well, although, having been done by an amateur, it isn’t quite as elegantly tapered as its even shorter neighbour. It is more kind-of squared off. There is a useful spin-off from this; it is possible to wear a ring on it without it falling off.
Perhaps I should have shortened it a bit more so that they would match. But you only think of these things afterwards. Besides, I was in considerable pain.
Toe Number 5
Sorry to disappoint you, but this one is even less exciting. About two years later, I removed the top joint of my little toe. All I did was kick a toolbox. I have a steel toolbox that Linny gave me for my birthday. It is so laden with tools that it weighs a ton. It’s heavy enough to be more of an immovable object than the proverbial coffee table on which people customarily break their pinkie toes. Of course, a break wasn't good enough for me; I had go and lop mine off! I guess that, technically, an amputation is just an incurable break.
I suppose this is what one pays for being barefoot most of the time. Coincidentally, it happened exactly nine years ago today.
In the flat that I moved into, my toolbox stood at a corner next to the doorway that led to the lounge. On the fateful day, I had left it open, so the edge of the lid was sticking out. I took the corner a bit too tightly and caught my little toe on it. I say caught, but I was walking fast, so it was more like a kick.
Observing lots of blood, I looked closer and was quite startled when I saw a piece of toe, complete with nail, hanging by a thin shred of flesh. The top of my toe had been neatly sliced off (almost). I was even more startled when I realised that there was a bone sticking out of the remnant.
I’m embarrassed to admit that my first thought was: ‘Hmm… a new interpretation of the term tip-off.’ Sorry, I’m just wired that way. (Have you noticed that wired is an anagram of weird, which, of course, contains weir?)
Once again, my allergy to hospitals supervened and I opted for home treatment. Using a pair of nail scissors I cut through the sliver of flesh, not that it needed much cutting. I think I could have just pulled it off. The piece fell into the hand basin.
The residual toe looked fine, so I just put antiseptic ointment on it and covered it with a plaster. I left it to heal on its own, which worked out quite well.
It hardly gave me any pain and I didn't need to take any analgesics. In fact, I’d recommend amputation as a pain-free alternative to breaking one’s pinkie toe (I’ve tried both, and amputation is far nicer). It’s scarcely noticeable, except if I knock it against something. It has no padding on the end, so it’s quite tender.
So, that's my story. It's probably just as well that I quite like scars and things; I've got enough of them. Because I tend to over-analyse things, I have thought long and hard about these two incidents. I steadfastly insist that they were accidents, but the analytical side of psyche occasionally ambushes me with the question: Isn’t that quite a succession of coincidences? Three amputations, on the same foot, in one lifetime? Come on!
Could it be that—subconsciously—I wanted to harvest a few more toes? The logical, conscious side of me insists: “No way! I’m not crazy. There’s no way I would do something like that! It's flipping painful. Who would want that?" But, who knows what really goes on inside the emotional department of one’s brain?
Well, in the absence of any real proof to the contrary, I'm sticking to my story. Of course, I might be a bit biased.
To be honest, I like my funny foot and I wouldn't change it for anything. If the Toe Fairy cam to me and said she could repair or replace my toes, I’d refuse. Even if she offered me money.
I think it’s better to have a few scars that prove that you showed up for the action than to go through life unblemished having never done anything out of the ordinary. But, maybe lopping off toes willy-nilly is a bit extreme!