Last week, out of the blue, I was phoned by my local podiatrist to inform me that as a diabetic, I qualify for three podiatry appointments per year, and my GP had therefore referred me. Wow, I thought, how desperate must his business be that he has to ring clients to offer them sessions? Whatever next? Opticians calling round offering free laser treatment, surgeons offering up new organs, and (hopefully) plastic surgeons telephoning offering free liposuction??
I was on the cusp of accepting and making a time to visit, when a pang (a very minor one, but a pang all the same) of guilt swept over me like rush of steam in a sauna.
"But I'm not a diabetic anymore, since my operation" I blurted out in a very good impression of being a honest citizen. What if I took the appointment sand then he found out that I now had a fully functioning pancreas? Would I be forced to pay his probably ludicrously expensive fees, or perhaps admonished by the local health board and face public humiliation on Crimewatch?
Not to worry he assured me, I was classed by "the system" as a diabetic "in remission". In remission? Is it going to come back then in my new pancreas? I found this hard to accept, surely the old pancreas was the cause of the diabetes, and now it has been replaced by a wonderful new functioning one, the incidence of disease related to the previous organ, will not strike again in the same place? To misquote Oscar Wilde, to lose one pancreas may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose both looks like carelessness.
So thought I, best check with my renal registrar, and he confirmed that I was indeed an ex- diabetic, not in remission, as I had undertaken a recovery from diabetes, by way of a transplant. Phew that was a relief, I don't want to be classed as in remission, as it sounds lmy miracle cure sound flawed and temporary.
At the podiatrists I was greeted by a scary and very earnest looking professional, and I found myself disturbed by his choice of lurid pullover, and manic grin. I was expecting a white coat at the least. After an exchange of pleasantries we assumed our roles, I as the barefooted patient, and he as the mad jumper attired serial killer from Criminal Minds. Matters looked worse as he examined my feet and delved into his "bag of tools" and produced a sharp instrument, that I am sure I saw on Season 2 of Dexter. He started his exploration, which of course tickled enormously, and I started to giggle. Perhaps he was the laughing comic foot killer, who disabled his victims by convulsions and paralysis caused by cataleptic laughter spasms.
After the surprisingly gentle attention he lavished on one foot, he then got me to swap over and he again began with his instrument of hysterical torture. He did however, preface this treatment, letting me know that this might tickle a little. I am not sure which school of medicine he went to, but it must have included a module on understatement for indeed tickle it did, sending me even further to the edge of sanity and frivolous endurance.
His last tool was a circular buffer which was a smoothing tool to round off some of the hardened skin, though to me it was a small sanding disc drill which emitted great clouds of white stuff, which he informed was my dead skin. Oh nice, I thought, I can now see clouds of myself floating around the room, all I needed was some LSD to complete the picture.
Afterwards there was no charge and as I left he called "See you in four months time!". He did sound most earnest. I replied with thanks and agreed to see him soon, however, it did not sound quite as earnest.
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