Of broken toes

I broke my toe.

First: No, I didn't stub it on the couch. I kicked a guy's foot. OK, it wasn't an actual kick, it was more like his foot and my foot crunching up against each other accidentally. Actually, it was more my toes (toe, singular, rather, the fourth one on the left foot, that little piggy, there), crunching up against his foot. Or something like that, I wasn't really watching. Not the point.

Point is: It hurts. It hurts more now than it did when it happened. Which is why I walked around on it for a full week before deciding to see the doctor. It didn't turn black and blue, really, which I was waiting for. And there was no crazy swelling (at least not at first). So, as a man (male of the species) I figured it was fine. Maybe I jammed it hard, which though painful, isn't a medical condition worthy of a doctor's visit. Then, round 'bout yesterday morning, when I woke up at 5 a.m. with a dull sort of foot ache, I decided I should probably at least get it checked out. What if it was dislocated? A $20 copay is worth some piece of mind, right?

So, this morning: I go to the doctor, to the X-Ray tech, then back to the doctor who says "yep, there you are," then shows me on the X-ray a nice little zig-zag crack across the fourth toe, left foot. Actually, thinking about it now makes me a bit queasy. It hurts.

And what does he do?: What everyone knows they do with broken toes. He tapes it up. He straps it to the next functioning toe and sends me on my merry way, which is apprapo, I guess, this being Christmas eve and all. There was no setting it back in place. No tiny toe cast. No pain meds. Just some clear tape and a "take it easy on that foot for awhile."

This is the first bone I've broken since the seventh grade and truthfully, I feel a bit gypped.