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If the cure is simple, shame is enormous
© St. Petersburg Times, published January 9, 2001 I remember one day when I was about 8 (and still in my formative years as an inquisitive know-it-all) asking a man on a Miami city bus why he had cut holes in what looked like an almost-new pair of shoes. "I have corns on my feet," he said. I couldn't wait to get home and tell my grandmother about the strange man I had met on the bus (conversations beginning with that introduction always seemed to grab her attention) who put corn on his feet. She explained that corns were something that grew on your feet but about which I wouldn't have to worry "until you're an old man." Fast-forward to a few weeks ago in the office of a highly regarded orthopedic surgeon to whom I had gone. I braced myself to hear that whatever was killing my feet was incurable and that I had better dig the old football-injury cane (and stories) out of the bedroom closet. "Yep," he said cheerfully, "you got a corn there, a good one." I'm always slightly depressed (and simultaneously elated) when something I think is dreadful turns out to be mundane. Five years ago, after having survived a bout with colon cancer, I sat quietly in my internist's office and planned my funeral because I had gone to her with severe chest pains and she had seen something "I don't like," on my chest X-ray. What she didn't like turned out to be scars from a 20-year-old injury, and an ear, nose and throat specialist told me a week later that I had a bad case of post-nasal drip. "Doc," I pleaded, "I need something a little sexier, after all of this moaning and groaning, than post-nasal drip. Can't you give it a fancy name like pre-pharyngial hyper fluidosis or something?" "You can call it whatever you want," he said, smiling as he wrote out a prescription, "but take this stuff and your chest will stop hurting." He was right. When I started having foot problems a few years ago (bothersome because walking is my favorite form of exercise) I went to a foot doctor who seemed convinced that the only way to heal my condition was to buy some expensive ointments, soaks and appliances that he just happened to have for sale. In the end, we parted company because he refused to provide the arch supports he said would fix things (for about $400) unless I paid for them in advance. I argued that he was obligated to accept insurance company payment for them. His office assistant said no money, no supports. I appealed to my insurance company, which said, in almost as many words, that he could do whatever he wanted. Four years later, new doctor, new insurance company and, suddenly, new advice. "You can buy stuff in the drugstore that helps," said the orthopedic surgeon, or you can wait a few weeks and it will fall off, or, "if you insist, I can do surgery which probably won't help." Actually, the first thing he said, doing a pretty good imitation of the guy from the old tire commercials, was "Wow, feet ain't pretty." Mustering all of his professional straight-facedness -- through which the medical community avoids being unduly critical of brother physicians or ever making any sound commonly associated with inter-duck communication -- my new favorite doctor said. "Just put a wad of cotton between your toes and keep wearing sandals." Since I have been wearing almost nothing but sandals (on my feet) for years, I welcomed now having medical expertise in case one of my bosses ever asked me about them. The truth is they never ask, and the most frequent question I get asked by management is, "Are you still here? I thought you retired." On Christmas Day a little girl asked me why I wore socks with my sandals. "Because I have corns," I answered. "What are corns?" she asked. My response brought back a lot of memories. "Something that old people . . . don't you have presents to open?"
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