THE PODIATRIST

A woman told me that she looks at a person's eyes and feet before she reaches a determination about that individual. I have the blue eyes, but my toe nails are a disaster. I suffer from onychomycosis, also called tinea unguium. In layman's term I am afflicted by a fungal infection that causes my toenails to grow in a grotesque fashion that evoke the gnarled branches of a mesquite tree.

Everything is cheap in Mexico City, medicine at the top of the list. There is a pharmacy around the corner from my residence in Colonia Jardin Balbuena. I have had this condition for years and I have never done anything about it because I'm not that vain. I remember my father had horrible looking toenails, so I have blown it off as a physical inheritance.

Out of curiosity, I asked a pharmacist if he had any medicine for my nails. He explained that there were different types of onychomycosis and I needed to consult with a doctor so he or she could prescribe the correct medication. He left me with this cautionary note: "If you don't treat it properly, you could face having your toes amputated." What!!! Amputated??? In a country where decapitations happen every day, amputation was the last thing I wanted to hear.

I was walking down the street looking for a new place to eat when I passed the office of a podiatrist. I decided the time for action was now. I inquired at the front desk about the cost of a consultation and the receptionist said 100 pesos. For five dollars I had nothing to lose. I asked if the doctor was in and she replied in the affirmative, adding that I would be examined shortly.

I waited patiently when a wisp of a woman attired in scrubs called me into a cubicle and closed the curtain. She was a tiny thing with huge glasses. During the examination she would study my toes closely while we conversed. I would crack a humorous comment and she would grin wildly and cackle. She was nothing short of goofy in her outbursts and she reminded me of a jack-in-the-box as her body shook with laughter as if she were at the end of a spring.

She concluded that my nails were in a miserable state. I could see that for myself, particularly with someone scrutinizing their repugnant condition. I needed all ten nails treated as well as a medicine in a liquid form that would be applied directly to the damaged nails and a special soap. She said that to treat the big toes it would cost 450 pesos each and the other toes would cost 200 pesos each. There was also the cost of the medicine and soap.

"If I don't receive this treatment, do I face the possibility of having my toes amputated if the condition worsens?"

"The worse case of onychomycosis doesn't require an amputation."

"The pharmacist told me that was a possibility."

"That's why he's a pharmacist and I'm a doctor. An ingrown toenail can lead to an amputation because infection can set in and turn into gangrene."

She estimated the cost for my treatment at approximately 3000 pesos--$150. If I did everything at once, however, she would include a discount. Relieved that I would never deal with an amputation, I thought about the gal who was fixated on feet. That was sufficient cause for me to proceed. I could only imagine the cost in the United States and I had the money, so why not? My nails did cause me a slight embarrassment and though I couldn't recall the female who had listed her priorities, there might be another with the same criteria whom I desired who might reject me because of my nails.

"Let's do it!"

She possessed a variety of instruments and began to cut my nails as much as she could. She followed this procedure with the application of a cream, finally wrapping each toe in tape. She instructed me to buy balloons, number fives for the big toes and number threes for the small toes, and place them around each toe when I bathed. Under no circumstances was I to wet my toes because the water would dilute the cream. I needed to make an appointment and return in five days.

At the end of the session, I asked, "How much?"

"One thousand and seven hundred pesos," she answered.

"Are you sure?" I replied since I had calculated 3000 pesos. "Are you including the medicine and the soap."

"That's the price," she said, her crazy smile virtually splitting her face in half.

Maybe she had intended to take this innocent gringo to the cleaners but had repented. I was thankful for the significant discount. When you are living on a pension with a fixed income, you are grateful for a deal.

"I guess I'll be able to eat a good dinner," I smiled and my jack-in-the-box sprung into her curious cackle with her head tilted to one side.

To cut to the chase since my life has been reduced to a mundane routine--no bullfights, no drunks late into the night, no marijuana, only Adela--I returned for two more treatments. The doctor wasn't there for either. I asked the receptionist about the doctor's whereabouts. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I don't know. She's the boss."