The Corn
George had a corn.
It was on the little toe of his left foot.
It wasn't a big one, but it did occasionally hurt if he bumped it. And it didn't look nice. He studied it sometimes when getting dressed. He hoped his wife didn't notice it.
He was sometimes troubled by sciatica, arthritis in his hands, a tooth that kept flaring up, but for some reason the corn kept most of his attention.
Maybe it was the stories he'd heard as a boy from his dad about a corn that was always bothering him.
He talked about the corn with some friends. Dick told a horror story of an uncle who had a corn that got so big he had to have surgery. And Don warned that corns can spread to other toes, your hands, even your face, or maybe to internal organs and bones. He advised George to get rid of it immediately, no matter what it took.
Joe pointed out that a corn is usually just a callus and not something to worry about for most people. He said if George was concerned he should just check with his doctor.
George ignored Joe. The other's horror stories had grabbed his attention.
Besides, he didn't like doctors. Didn't trust them. Bunch of know-it-alls, like Joe and his wife Valerie.
George studied the corn that night. Was it bigger?
The next day he went to the drug store and got some medicines. He tried several over the next few days. He kept studying the corn. Sometimes he'd even take his shoes off at work when no one was watching.
The corn was not getting smaller. It looked like it was getting bigger. He was sure of it.
The medicines were not working fast enough.
Don had suggested cutting it off.
George decided that was the only solution.
The corn was hard to see. It took several attempts, and some blood, but he got it.
Over the next few days, he watched as the cut got red and infected. Soon the entire toe was red.
He limped into his doctor's office. He made up a story about cutting the toe on nail that was sticking up. He was too embarrassed to tell the truth.
The doctor was alarmed. The infection was spreading rapidly. He prescribed antiobiotics.
George took the antibiotics. He reacted negatively to them. He developed a fever. The infection continued to spread.
About a week later, George was lying awake in bed in agony. His wife was concerned. She called an ambulance. He was rushed to the hospital.
The infection had spread into his foot. Doctors debated possible treatments. They said the situation was serious. If the infection continued to spread, it could mean amputation, and the possible threat of death.
As George lay in the bed, he wondered for a moment what he had done to deserve this. Could he have done things better? Maybe Joe had been right.
Or maybe that was just the fever talking.
Yes, the fever.
He was certain of one thing: It was the corn's fault.
The above story is fiction.
Any comparisons of the corn to Saddam Hussein and Iraq is purely coincidental.
It was on the little toe of his left foot.
It wasn't a big one, but it did occasionally hurt if he bumped it. And it didn't look nice. He studied it sometimes when getting dressed. He hoped his wife didn't notice it.
He was sometimes troubled by sciatica, arthritis in his hands, a tooth that kept flaring up, but for some reason the corn kept most of his attention.
Maybe it was the stories he'd heard as a boy from his dad about a corn that was always bothering him.
He talked about the corn with some friends. Dick told a horror story of an uncle who had a corn that got so big he had to have surgery. And Don warned that corns can spread to other toes, your hands, even your face, or maybe to internal organs and bones. He advised George to get rid of it immediately, no matter what it took.
Joe pointed out that a corn is usually just a callus and not something to worry about for most people. He said if George was concerned he should just check with his doctor.
George ignored Joe. The other's horror stories had grabbed his attention.
Besides, he didn't like doctors. Didn't trust them. Bunch of know-it-alls, like Joe and his wife Valerie.
George studied the corn that night. Was it bigger?
The next day he went to the drug store and got some medicines. He tried several over the next few days. He kept studying the corn. Sometimes he'd even take his shoes off at work when no one was watching.
The corn was not getting smaller. It looked like it was getting bigger. He was sure of it.
The medicines were not working fast enough.
Don had suggested cutting it off.
George decided that was the only solution.
The corn was hard to see. It took several attempts, and some blood, but he got it.
Over the next few days, he watched as the cut got red and infected. Soon the entire toe was red.
He limped into his doctor's office. He made up a story about cutting the toe on nail that was sticking up. He was too embarrassed to tell the truth.
The doctor was alarmed. The infection was spreading rapidly. He prescribed antiobiotics.
George took the antibiotics. He reacted negatively to them. He developed a fever. The infection continued to spread.
About a week later, George was lying awake in bed in agony. His wife was concerned. She called an ambulance. He was rushed to the hospital.
The infection had spread into his foot. Doctors debated possible treatments. They said the situation was serious. If the infection continued to spread, it could mean amputation, and the possible threat of death.
As George lay in the bed, he wondered for a moment what he had done to deserve this. Could he have done things better? Maybe Joe had been right.
Or maybe that was just the fever talking.
Yes, the fever.
He was certain of one thing: It was the corn's fault.
The above story is fiction.
Any comparisons of the corn to Saddam Hussein and Iraq is purely coincidental.
posted by A Secular Franciscan | 8:56 AM
2 Comments:
That's great, Lee. It's a good bedtime story for us (grown up) kids who hope to wake up someday from this Iraq nightmare. Well done.
Thanks! - Lee (I have to do it this way, because this crappy new blogger won't let me sign in with my name)
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