Logan has an ingrown toenail. He's had it since before he was injured. I pointed it out to the medical team in the ER. They said not to worry about it, that he would be receiving massive doses of antibiotics that would take care of it. But, I continued to worry about it and would point it out to various medical folks over the next three weeks. Everyone assured me they would take care of it. No one did. It really began to annoy me. Yesterday, Logan had a check up at the trauma clinic. I pointed out the infected, swollen, oozing toe. They said, go see his primary care physician. So today we went to the primary care physician who looked at it, prescribed antibiotics, Epsom salt soaks, and a return visit in four weeks. I was not especially pleased at deferring aggressive treatment four more weeks. Then, a twenty-five year old man who had broken his neck in a motorcycle accident wheeled into the waiting room in his very elaborate wheel chair. He had come from his nearby apartment home where he lived with his grandmother. He is a paraplegic, completely paralyzed from the waist down with some limited use of his upper limbs, an intact mind and charming smile. He wanted a referral to physical therapy. He said he could get there three times a week when his grandmother went in for her dialysis.
I had been feeling so overwhelmed and sorry for myself, but oh man, lessons like this are a real sock in the gut. Ingrown toenails really are small stuff.