Ladders, Razor Blades, and Three Years of What the Hell

It’s been about three years — yes, three full years — of walking around with two little landmines on the bottom of my feet. Every step? Pain. So, naturally, I adjusted my walk to avoid the pressure. Then, of course, other body parts got sore from all the overcompensation. It was like a domino effect of dumb pain.

Still, I powered through. I was pulling 20,000+ steps a day at work, begging for mercy each night when I finally flopped into bed. The pain would ease just enough to sleep, then I'd get up and do it all over again. Every. Poopy. Day.

Eventually, I figured it out: these two painful spots lined up perfectly with the edge of a ladder rung. And guess who stood on ladders for forty damn years? Bingo. That’d be me.

Then I switched careers — no more ladders — but the pain stayed. The new job? Just a step-by-step, slow-motion reminder of every single ladder I ever stood on.

Now I’ve done a lot of things over the years:
Built restaurants. Ran a drywall business. Carpentry, cabinet shop… you name it. The one constant through all of it? Painting. That job never disappeared — and apparently neither did its effects. Here I am, post-chemo, post-cancer (well, as post as one can get with stage four), and where am I headed? Right back to the painting business. You know, the one that now gives me PTSD every time I pass a damn ladder.

So I figured it was time.
After ignoring this for three years and being reminded daily just how fun untreated pain can be, I scheduled a visit with the foot doctor. Yeah, I know there’s a fancy name for it, but “foot doctor” is easier to spell — and I’m tired of seeing red squiggly lines under every other word.

Of course, I’d already asked every other doctor I’ve ever had — my primary, my oncologist, random people at the gas station — all of them had a theory. So I figured I might as well pay someone to finally tell me what the internet already had.

I showed up this past Wednesday, ready to throw my wallet on the counter.
“Are you self-pay?” the check-in lady asked.
I said yes.
She gave me the full head-to-toe scan with her eyes.
I refrained from giving her the middle-to-top scan with my finger.

Surprisingly, they didn’t ask me for money up front. No vitals, no weigh-in, no blood pressure cuff strangling my arm. No lab chair. Nothing. I thought, hell, this is great! Until I started wondering if I accidentally wandered into a Good Feet store.
Been there. Done that. Got offered $3 insoles for the low price of $1,500. Yeah… I passed. Walmart, aisle 12. You're welcome.

Anyway — the doc walks in. Sits on the stool. “What’s going on?”
I tell him: two spots. One on each foot. I start to point —
BAM. He presses the exact spots before I even finish talking.

I yelp. He nods. Says, “I’ll be right back.”
Now I’m thinking uh… what the hell was that about?
He comes back in with a metal box, puts gloves on, pulls out a razor blade, and heads straight for my feet. Still hasn’t told me what he’s doing. No warning. No explanation. Definitely no numbing shot.

At this point, I’m mentally preparing for him to carve out my soul (or sole, depending on the mood).

But he just… scrapes.
No cutting. No digging. Just light scraping. Three minutes later, he sets the blade down and gets that evil look in his eye again.

He’s going to press the spots. Again.
I brace myself, grab the sides of the chair…
He pushes.

NOTHING.
No pain.
Not even a flinch.
Just… gone.

You have GOT to be kidding me.

Three years of misery.
18 weeks of chemo.
A stage four diagnosis.
Daily anxiety and mental fatigue.
And this guy fixed this in three minutes with a glorified Exacto knife.

Then he casually trims my toenails, tells me to buzz back in if the pain returns, throws in a “keep those toenails clean,” and hits me with:
“That’ll be $200. See the lady at the window.”

Two days later? Still pain-free.
I almost want to punch a ladder.

So here’s the moral of the story, kids:
If something hurts, go see someone about it.
Don't wait three years. Don't Google it.
Don’t ask Karen from aisle 4 at Home Depot.
Just get it looked at.

Starting to wonder if the whole “I’m a Simple Man, not a stupid man” tagline might need a little tweaking…

— A Simple Man