If you follow me on twitter, you probably have some idea where I’m going with some of this.

This morning I got up much earlier than I wanted to on my last day of vacation and drove out to the student health center.  The goal of the day was to check in with a physician to make sure that I wasn’t having a stroke.  And, of course, to get a referral to a neurologist.

I arrived 45 minutes early (seriously Los Angeles traffic, you and your unpredictability can suck it) and thankfully they let me in early.  The doctor (who was gorgeous, but not nearly as gorgeous as my live-in physician) asked a few questions and as soon as I said the word Chiari he was done.  I believe his exact words were, “whoa, we don’t treat that here.  How about a referral?”

So basically I drove 30 miles, one way, to get a referral.  Which really, is fine.  Except that when I called the neurology office to make an appointment, the referral hadn’t actually been sent.  So I have to go back tomorrow.  I really shouldn’t be surprised by this, and yet, I am.

I went home and lazed around the house for several hours.  When Slappy got home from his 33 straight hours in the NICU, I fed him (not literally.  I mean, I provided him with food.  He has hands.) and tucked him into bed (yes, we’re gag-ably cute.).  As I was leaving the room, I ran into the new desk chair mat.  You know, the thick plastic kind with all the spikes?  That kind.  Ran into it with my right foot.

And I fell to the floor.  Considering the pain, I expected that half my foot would be missing when I finally looked at my foot.  But to my surprise, there was nothing.  Hardly even any blood.  (I might have even uttered something to the effect of, for all that pain, I should get a war wound).  I went into the bathroom to apply a bandaid and realized that, holy crap, about 80% of one of my toenails was NO LONGER ATTACHED.

And then I died.

Seriously y’all.  That shit HURTS.  I couldn’t bear to pull the whole thing off (it looks like a loose tooth still barely attached) so I trimmed it and band-aided it.  In case you wondered, being married to a doctor who is grossed out by toenails is WORTHLESS.  It’s now bled through like 3 band-aids and throbs whenever it’s not elevated.  And it looks CUTE too.

But, on the upside, this totally answers the question of whether I should I wear flip flops or tennis shoes to my first day of grad school.  Because, I’d rather amputate my toe with a chainsaw, with no anesthesia, in my wedding dress, in front of a large audience, in a pool of acid, than put a shoe on.

Or, you know, something slightly less melodramatic.  Whatever.

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