Hypochondria

Last week, I stubbed my toe.

Last week, I stubbed my toe hard. Really hard. Like, had to sit down, take a deep breath, and remember if swearing out loud actually helps or not. (For the record, it does.) It hurt that night while I was falling asleep, and it hurt a little bit the next day, but after that, it stopped hurting, and I didn’t think about my toe.

Until today.

Today, my toe is sore, and a wee bit painful. Kind of like it needs a good massage and maybe a toe chiropractor, because it feels like it needs cracked, almost. I keep wiggling it around in my shoe, trying to find a way to ease the tension and pain a bit, but nothing is helping.

I didn’t think I broke it. But maybe I did. Which of course makes me think about that episode of House with Mira Sorvino, who’s an explorer trapped in the South Pole, and getting sicker and sicker, and finally has to have another explorer drill a hole in her brain when it turns out that the reason she’s so sick is that she broke her toe and bits of inner toe workings (bones? marrow?) are getting into her bloodstream and SLOWLY KILLING HER.

Now I’m totally convinced I’m going to have to call a fictitious diagnostician to help me with my toe. Because obviously the pain in my toe means I’m DYING.

Or maybe my new shoes don’t fit.