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Abstract

my chronic illness, I probably would have.But the thing they don’t tell you about seeking a diagnosis for an invisible illness like mine is that it is, among other things, deeply exhausting.You see, Western medicine likes to treat obvious injuries and ailments it can see and doesn’t like to believe women, particularly about pain. This is a super fun combination when you’re a healthy-appearing young woman trying to explain the invisible shocking pains that sporadically wrack the base of your skull.It took nearly six months full of constant appointments and “wait and see” techniques before I finally got a diagnosis and treatment plan. These days just hearing the word “doctor” makes me feel anxious, angry, and then deeply, deeply tired.As a result, I’ve developed a counterproductive strategy when less immediate health concerns arise. I ignore them and hope they will go away. Anything besides entering into another bout of endless tests, appointments, and copays that will empty my energy reserves and my wallet.So, I steadfastly ignored the toe. Then, when that stopped working, I looked up some at-home remedies like soaking the toe in vinegar, in the hopes that Dr. Google and I could handle the situation.After about a month of assuring my fiancé that “it really does seem like it’s getting better,” I had to give up the ghost and go see my doctor. Or rather, a resident at the office which also sometimes inhabits my doctor. In consultation with his attending physician, the resident helpfully suggested I soak the toe in vinegar.He also gave me the number to a podiatrist, noting that “the toenail may need to come off,” as if this wasn’t the stuff of nightmares. Needless to say, I put off calling the podiatrist for a week.Like most of the waiting rooms in recent memory, the podiatrist’s office was full of people twice my age or older. Many of them walked slowly and seemed unsteady on their feet, which made sense, given the foot doctor of it all.I felt like an imposter, per usual, as I walked jauntily down the hallway, appearing with my shoes on to be perfectly fine. I signed in, sat down, and tried not to think about the hospital waiting room where I sat in a gown, awaiting the MRI that would tell me whether I had cancer, an auto-immune disease, or “just” a rare pain disorder.The podiatrist poked at my toenail for a bit while I stared at the ceiling. He explained that I’d most likely detached the toenail by tripping on the sidewalk. My toe’s current state was a result of an infection caused by moisture trapped between my toe and the formerly attached nail.He said it didn’t look that bad, and the toenail wouldn’t need to be removed so long as the infection cleared up. If it wasn’t hurting me, it was best to let the toenail stick around so the skin wouldn’t grow over the nailbed. Which is a thing that can happen. Apparently.He gave me a week to tend to the toenail following his prescribed method (soaking the toenail in vinegar) while also taking an antibiotic to clear up the infection. Then, he’d take another look at the toenail and decide whether to yank her off.What I’ve learned about myself is that waiting is the worst part of any health-related experience. When I know what’s coming, I can brace myself for it. It’s the “what ifs” that send my a

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nxiety and I on a spiraling journey to panic town.While awaiting that second appointment, I had many a sad soaking session where I gazed longingly down at my apparently detached, yellowed toenail and wondered whether I’d get to keep her. The not knowing tore at me. Would she stay, or would she go?I returned to the office with a sense of dread, bracing for the inevitable reality of having my toenail ripped out.Except, it looked good. According to the doctor, the toenail didn’t need to go, and I wasn’t about to argue. Apparently, it would fall off on its own eventually, when the new toenail grew in and pushed it out.Did you know it takes about a year to regrow a toenail? Yeah, me neither. But it does.Even armed with this knowledge, as the months went by I began to doubt the old toenail would ever relinquish its hold. I’d just have this sad, embarrassing relic on my toe forever.And then, the top 3/4 of the toenail broke off and I could see the horrors beneath. Though indeed something like a new toenail was trying to assert itself, the bottom quarter of the old one really didn’t want to say goodbye. This didn’t make for a pretty combination. I immediately called the podiatrist.A few days later, I drove the now-familiar route, once again convinced the doctor’s most earnest wish was to brutally rip out my toenail while cackling like a horror movie villain. He didn’t, of course.He did clip away the remains of my former toenail and use a grinder thing to smooth out the new one, while I looked determinedly at the ceiling again.So, here I am, down a toenail (or at least, most of one). And it didn’t go like I thought it would, in one swift and sudden incident. It went slowly and then all at once, like a character in a John Green novel falls in love.It’s just a toenail. I get that. Whether she stayed or she went, I’d be fine. After all, to quote my podiatrist, “people do surprisingly well without toenails.”But I feel so tired of my body doing all these random, unexpected things. And I feel embarrassed of the toenail’s haggard appearance, as if it’s a personal failure. Sitting there in the chair awaiting the doctor, I fought back tears as wondered if I’d ever again have the courage to wear flip flops or go to a public yoga class.What I know rationally, but often struggle to remember, is that there’s no reason to be ashamed of my body for differing from an imaginary “norm.” Body difference isn’t a moral failure. That’s a stupid holdover from a bad, overused literary device.Our bodies are our bodies, one part of the whole that is our personhood. People might be jerks about bodies that don’t look or engage with the world in ways they expect, but ultimately, that is their problem, not mine. Other people’s reactions to what I’ve affectionately dubbed my “fucky toe” don’t have to mean anything about me if I don’t let them.So, here’s to turning 30, and to getting married, and to doing it with my weird little toenail in my open-toed shoes because it’s my wedding and people will just have to deal.Here’s to being a runner who lost a toenail in a stupid, boring way that had almost nothing to do with running at all. Here’s to my body, which is doing an okay job of things overall, when you think about it.</article></body>

When I Started Running, I Expected to Lose a Toenail — But Not Like This

It takes a year to grow a new toenail. Not that I’m counting

Prior to getting engaged, I didn’t spend a lot of time imagining what my wedding would look like. Until I turned 29, I didn’t picture who I would be at 30. These were both far-off hypothetical things. Until they weren’t.

So was the concept of losing a toenail. But we’ll get to that.

This year, I’m turning 30 and getting married in quick succession. My 30th birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day and the wedding on the 30th of April.

And my left big toenail? Well, she’s not going to make it. Or at least, not all of her will.

Let me back up a bit to when I first became a runner and was introduced to the idea that people sometimes part ways with their toenails.

The year was 2018. I had no boyfriend, no idea what I’d be doing after grad school, and no idea that I’d soon acquire a chronic illness. What I did know was that this would be the year I finally, really, became a runner. And I did.

As I connected with the broader running community, I encountered a concerning number of stories about lost toenails. Some runners even seemed to view losing a toenail as a rite of passage, an initiation into the exclusive club of “real runners.”

This notion horrified me. I’ve always had a bit of a thing about nails, which is to say, I can’t watch anything nail-related happening to anyone on TV or in real life.

Thankfully, many people assured me the toenail thing wasn’t as ubiquitous as it seemed, at least not among shorter-distance runners like me. Some ultramarathoners have their toenails removed on purpose, I am told, by my fiancé, who is not an expert. Someone else assured me that lost toenails are usually the result of improperly fitted running shoes.

Dubiously sourced toenail facts aside, I trained for and ran my first 10K, then my first half-marathon without any incidents. I began to believe my toenails were safe from the runner’s curse.

And then, on a normal walk with my dog and my fiancé, I tripped and fell. I do that a lot. Our sidewalks aren’t great around here, and I get distracted easily.

At first, this seemed like any other fall, a short-term injury with no serious repercussions. The wound on my knee healed, though I still have a small scar. All would have been well, except… something else started happening, too.

I’ll try to explain without getting too graphic because I assume everyone is as horrified by toenail-related matters as I am. My big toe, around the nailbed, began to hurt a bit. It turned pink, then swollen. Sometimes, there was puss.

The responsible thing to do here, probably, would’ve been to get to a doctor posthaste. In a former life, before my chronic illness, I probably would have.

But the thing they don’t tell you about seeking a diagnosis for an invisible illness like mine is that it is, among other things, deeply exhausting.

You see, Western medicine likes to treat obvious injuries and ailments it can see and doesn’t like to believe women, particularly about pain. This is a super fun combination when you’re a healthy-appearing young woman trying to explain the invisible shocking pains that sporadically wrack the base of your skull.

It took nearly six months full of constant appointments and “wait and see” techniques before I finally got a diagnosis and treatment plan. These days just hearing the word “doctor” makes me feel anxious, angry, and then deeply, deeply tired.

As a result, I’ve developed a counterproductive strategy when less immediate health concerns arise. I ignore them and hope they will go away. Anything besides entering into another bout of endless tests, appointments, and copays that will empty my energy reserves and my wallet.

So, I steadfastly ignored the toe. Then, when that stopped working, I looked up some at-home remedies like soaking the toe in vinegar, in the hopes that Dr. Google and I could handle the situation.

After about a month of assuring my fiancé that “it really does seem like it’s getting better,” I had to give up the ghost and go see my doctor. Or rather, a resident at the office which also sometimes inhabits my doctor. In consultation with his attending physician, the resident helpfully suggested I soak the toe in vinegar.

He also gave me the number to a podiatrist, noting that “the toenail may need to come off,” as if this wasn’t the stuff of nightmares. Needless to say, I put off calling the podiatrist for a week.

Like most of the waiting rooms in recent memory, the podiatrist’s office was full of people twice my age or older. Many of them walked slowly and seemed unsteady on their feet, which made sense, given the foot doctor of it all.

I felt like an imposter, per usual, as I walked jauntily down the hallway, appearing with my shoes on to be perfectly fine. I signed in, sat down, and tried not to think about the hospital waiting room where I sat in a gown, awaiting the MRI that would tell me whether I had cancer, an auto-immune disease, or “just” a rare pain disorder.

The podiatrist poked at my toenail for a bit while I stared at the ceiling. He explained that I’d most likely detached the toenail by tripping on the sidewalk. My toe’s current state was a result of an infection caused by moisture trapped between my toe and the formerly attached nail.

He said it didn’t look that bad, and the toenail wouldn’t need to be removed so long as the infection cleared up. If it wasn’t hurting me, it was best to let the toenail stick around so the skin wouldn’t grow over the nailbed. Which is a thing that can happen. Apparently.

He gave me a week to tend to the toenail following his prescribed method (soaking the toenail in vinegar) while also taking an antibiotic to clear up the infection. Then, he’d take another look at the toenail and decide whether to yank her off.

What I’ve learned about myself is that waiting is the worst part of any health-related experience. When I know what’s coming, I can brace myself for it. It’s the “what ifs” that send my anxiety and I on a spiraling journey to panic town.

While awaiting that second appointment, I had many a sad soaking session where I gazed longingly down at my apparently detached, yellowed toenail and wondered whether I’d get to keep her. The not knowing tore at me. Would she stay, or would she go?

I returned to the office with a sense of dread, bracing for the inevitable reality of having my toenail ripped out.

Except, it looked good. According to the doctor, the toenail didn’t need to go, and I wasn’t about to argue. Apparently, it would fall off on its own eventually, when the new toenail grew in and pushed it out.

Did you know it takes about a year to regrow a toenail? Yeah, me neither. But it does.

Even armed with this knowledge, as the months went by I began to doubt the old toenail would ever relinquish its hold. I’d just have this sad, embarrassing relic on my toe forever.

And then, the top 3/4 of the toenail broke off and I could see the horrors beneath. Though indeed something like a new toenail was trying to assert itself, the bottom quarter of the old one really didn’t want to say goodbye. This didn’t make for a pretty combination. I immediately called the podiatrist.

A few days later, I drove the now-familiar route, once again convinced the doctor’s most earnest wish was to brutally rip out my toenail while cackling like a horror movie villain. He didn’t, of course.

He did clip away the remains of my former toenail and use a grinder thing to smooth out the new one, while I looked determinedly at the ceiling again.

So, here I am, down a toenail (or at least, most of one). And it didn’t go like I thought it would, in one swift and sudden incident. It went slowly and then all at once, like a character in a John Green novel falls in love.

It’s just a toenail. I get that. Whether she stayed or she went, I’d be fine. After all, to quote my podiatrist, “people do surprisingly well without toenails.”

But I feel so tired of my body doing all these random, unexpected things. And I feel embarrassed of the toenail’s haggard appearance, as if it’s a personal failure. Sitting there in the chair awaiting the doctor, I fought back tears as wondered if I’d ever again have the courage to wear flip flops or go to a public yoga class.

What I know rationally, but often struggle to remember, is that there’s no reason to be ashamed of my body for differing from an imaginary “norm.” Body difference isn’t a moral failure. That’s a stupid holdover from a bad, overused literary device.

Our bodies are our bodies, one part of the whole that is our personhood. People might be jerks about bodies that don’t look or engage with the world in ways they expect, but ultimately, that is their problem, not mine. Other people’s reactions to what I’ve affectionately dubbed my “fucky toe” don’t have to mean anything about me if I don’t let them.

So, here’s to turning 30, and to getting married, and to doing it with my weird little toenail in my open-toed shoes because it’s my wedding and people will just have to deal.

Here’s to being a runner who lost a toenail in a stupid, boring way that had almost nothing to do with running at all. Here’s to my body, which is doing an okay job of things overall, when you think about it.