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it happened to me

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Ariana, my five-year-old niece, had been relaxing beside her grandfather, a mathematician, and me, her elementary-schoolteacher aunt, in the steamy swirl of hot-tub bubbles for only a few seconds when she drew back in horror. She had seen my foot.

For months on end I had been keeping drugstores in business with my perpetual purchase of corn removers. My muscles, impacted by spastic cerebral palsy, were pulling my big toe sideways, dislocating my second toe and forcing it to sit on top of my big toe. Few shoes are designed to accommodate double-decker toes, so with the sad reality that a mere toe was impacting my quality of life, I hobbled into a surgical podiatrist's office.

"Well, there are two options," he began. He then outlined a procedure in which my big toe would have to be broken and then straightened with pins. Once that healed, my second toe would need to undergo a similar surgery. Not being able to hop around on crutches, three months of wheelchair use and home care would be in order.

What teacher has three months to spare? I inwardly scoffed.

Aloud, I asked, "And what's the second option?"

"Removing the second toe. I never present that option first because a lot of people do not like the idea of missing a body part."

It's just a toe, I thought.

In the following months I cryptically referred to my upcoming "weight loss program" and before I knew it, I was in the operating room positioned on what resembled a dentist's chair with my foot locally anesthetized. A curtain screened me from the sight but not from the sounds of sawing. Eventually, I heard something akin to a raw bean snapping as my toe was severed. Trust me, I've never offered my assistance with canning beans since then.

When I inquired into the itinerary of the isolated toe, the doctor, almost too quickly, remarked that removed toes are not returned to patients, but rather sent away for disposal. I'm not sure what he was thinking. Did he surmise I'd use it for a pendant? He then opened the curtain, revealing my bulkily bandaged foot and my toe showcased in a jar, a lonely specimen.

Although I took my loss of a toe in stride, and was able to stride more comfortably with roomier shoes, others took it more seriously. And no, I'm not referring to the decreased business drugstores suffered.

Because cerebral palsy makes it difficult for me to fold my body in half and deftly manoeuvre a toenail clipper, every six weeks I visited a home-care agency to tend to my toenails. When the nurse saw my foot, she examined it curiously for a few seconds before I revealed what was amiss.

When I had the same nurse at my next appointment, I, trying to conceal the mischief from my voice, asked her if I qualified for a 10-per-cent discount. She eyed me, confused, until I explained that she had one less nail to clip. She answered curtly, "No. We do not do that here." So much for my attempt to turn my anatomical loss into economic gain! Back in the hot tub, Ariana, wondering what else I was missing, asked to see my hand. Although all my fingers are intact, one is slightly bent, betraying an earlier break. Ariana beheld me with fresh eyes. What she failed to realize is that I am merely taking my role as a mathematician's daughter to another level, for I, too, am obsessed with digits – especially my own.

Julia Byl lives in Langley, B.C.

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