During my stay in fabulous Las Vegas, I ran into a building. Yes, an actual building. The M&M’s Store to be exact. I, of course, blame it on the 4 ft. drink I had hanging around my neck, because when you think about it, you really cant be held responsible for your actions when you’ve consumed that much alcohol. Which was really too bad, since I really needed someone to blame for my big fat toe, which had gotten bigger and fatter and turned an ugly color of bruise.
Turns out, I had aggravated an ingrown toenail, which was a direct result a bad cutting. I didn’t even know what an ingrown toenail was. All I knew was that it hurt. And it was really gross. Eventually, I made my way to a podiatrist, and I would’ve gone sooner, but I wanted a really good doctor to work on my toe. So I waited, until L.A. based podiatrist, Dr. Evans, came to Tucson.
He was supposed to be the best, but the reality was, he was the most painful doctor I ever had. Almost as if he was inexperienced. He examined my toe by squeezing it and poking it with his finger, and even though I wanted to scream, I kept my mouth shut. I figured I was supposed to be feeling pain, with my toenail cutting into my toe and whatnot. Plus, he was from L.A., and all the best doctors are in L.A. so he had to have known what he was doing. I think. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, even after he stabbed my toe eight times with a needle to numb it.
I had my drastic toe surgery the week of Valentine’s, which is why I was thankful that President’s Day fell on the following Monday. I had the day off, and I needed it. I had been working overtime on a bad toe, which totally threw off my balance and left me looking like Bambi, after birth. I didn’t complain about it though, because I knew I had to work either way, so what would be the point? My film director friend, Jeff didn’t see it that way. He said, “When things happen to us, we do one of two things. We talk about it. Or we don’t. And for the most part, it’s the things that we don’t talk about, that we should.” I totally rolled my eyes at that one. It was a swollen toe for Pete’s sake, not a
But maybe Jeff had a point. Maybe I did need to say something. After all, if humans were capable of making mistakes, then wouldn’t doctors, who were human too, be capable of mistakes as well? Even the L.A. ones?
Later that day, at my follow-up appointment with Dr. Evans, I wondered how the treatment of my toe would go. If I felt pain, I would say something. I would speak up and turn a wrong into a right. But if it didn’t hurt, did that mean, I couldn’t complain about the last visit? I hunched over my toe to inspect Dr. Evans work as he pulled out what appeared to be, a mini grapefruit scooper and began to scoop away at the dead skin debris that had accumulated between my nail and the skin, in the space that he had created earlier. With each scoop, a shock of pain went through my entire body. It was so severe that I could feel tears start to form. I kept saying "Ow! Ow! Ow!" all to no avail. It was like having that bad dream where you’re being tied down to a pair of train tracks, by Snidely K. Whiplash, and you scream for help, but nobody can hear you because, of course, it‘s a black and white silent movie, so you scream louder and louder and louder until at the very last second you wake up in a cold sweat. Except this wasn't a dream. This was real. And so was my pain. And then in one swift movement it was all done. Dr. Evans had touched a nerve, that must’ve been linked to my left arm, because up it went, upside Dr. Evans’ head. I had hit him. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked and so was he. We sat for a few moments in silence until Dr. Evans said, “Ok, I think we’re done here. I’ll just finish up here and you can go.”
I could go? Just like that? No follow-up or anything? Last time I saw Dr. Evans he told me I would have to go in at least another two times. Even my paperwork said the same thing. Was he really mad that I hit him? Was he really that petty? I mean, he had to expect some sort of repercussion after hearing me tell him he was hurting my foot and ignoring my cry. Right? Maybe speaking out wasn’t the right thing to do. It cost me a third appointment, despite the fact that I tried to point out that he had said otherwise. It was just not my day. I should’ve just stayed quiet and let the doctor do what he knew best.
But, as I later learned, maybe speaking out is good. It happened the following Thursday, during the Tucson Rodeo Parade. Over half the entire city had the day off and traveled to South Tucson to sit on the curb and watch the world’s oldest and largest non-motorized parade. There were horses and cowboys galore, including the world famous Tucson Arizona Boys Chorus, which I used to be a part of when I was younger. You know, before I realized that wearing sparkly bandana’s while singing show tunes was not the road I wanted to head down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it all, as I had to work later on that day. Which is why I left early, to make sure I would and could beat the traffic.
About five minutes after I left, five-year-old, Brielle Boisvert came riding down the street on a beautiful white horse, waving and smiling to the crowd. And right in front of my family, is where a tragedy happened. A run-away wagon bumped into Brielle’s horse, throwing her up into the air. As she landed onto the asphalt, her horse trampled over her, along with the run-away wagon and the horses pulling it. My Aunt Sylvia was the first person who rushed out to Brielle’s side and held her hand, telling her it would be alright as her mother and sisters, got off their horses and pushed through the crowd to the fallen cowgirl.
It all happened so fast, that it was almost hard to believe, hundreds of people witnessed the death of a little girl. It was all so terribly tragic as everyone discussed what they saw and what had happened to both the police and to the news crew. The only person who wasn’t talking was my Aunt Sylvia. Every time she tried to talk about it, she would burst out into an emotional flow of tears as she realized that Brielle probably died right there on the street and not on the way to the hospital, as it was reported. The case is still ongoing as police are asking the community for any and all leads as to what could have spooked the horses that trampled Brielle. I feel that my Aunt Sylvia knows a lot about what happened, since she was right there in those last crucial moments and was taking pictures of everything. But she’s not saying anything. And I don’t know how to convince her otherwise.
Turns out, I had aggravated an ingrown toenail, which was a direct result a bad cutting. I didn’t even know what an ingrown toenail was. All I knew was that it hurt. And it was really gross. Eventually, I made my way to a podiatrist, and I would’ve gone sooner, but I wanted a really good doctor to work on my toe. So I waited, until L.A. based podiatrist, Dr. Evans, came to Tucson.
He was supposed to be the best, but the reality was, he was the most painful doctor I ever had. Almost as if he was inexperienced. He examined my toe by squeezing it and poking it with his finger, and even though I wanted to scream, I kept my mouth shut. I figured I was supposed to be feeling pain, with my toenail cutting into my toe and whatnot. Plus, he was from L.A., and all the best doctors are in L.A. so he had to have known what he was doing. I think. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, even after he stabbed my toe eight times with a needle to numb it.
I had my drastic toe surgery the week of Valentine’s, which is why I was thankful that President’s Day fell on the following Monday. I had the day off, and I needed it. I had been working overtime on a bad toe, which totally threw off my balance and left me looking like Bambi, after birth. I didn’t complain about it though, because I knew I had to work either way, so what would be the point? My film director friend, Jeff didn’t see it that way. He said, “When things happen to us, we do one of two things. We talk about it. Or we don’t. And for the most part, it’s the things that we don’t talk about, that we should.” I totally rolled my eyes at that one. It was a swollen toe for Pete’s sake, not a
But maybe Jeff had a point. Maybe I did need to say something. After all, if humans were capable of making mistakes, then wouldn’t doctors, who were human too, be capable of mistakes as well? Even the L.A. ones?
Later that day, at my follow-up appointment with Dr. Evans, I wondered how the treatment of my toe would go. If I felt pain, I would say something. I would speak up and turn a wrong into a right. But if it didn’t hurt, did that mean, I couldn’t complain about the last visit? I hunched over my toe to inspect Dr. Evans work as he pulled out what appeared to be, a mini grapefruit scooper and began to scoop away at the dead skin debris that had accumulated between my nail and the skin, in the space that he had created earlier. With each scoop, a shock of pain went through my entire body. It was so severe that I could feel tears start to form. I kept saying "Ow! Ow! Ow!" all to no avail. It was like having that bad dream where you’re being tied down to a pair of train tracks, by Snidely K. Whiplash, and you scream for help, but nobody can hear you because, of course, it‘s a black and white silent movie, so you scream louder and louder and louder until at the very last second you wake up in a cold sweat. Except this wasn't a dream. This was real. And so was my pain. And then in one swift movement it was all done. Dr. Evans had touched a nerve, that must’ve been linked to my left arm, because up it went, upside Dr. Evans’ head. I had hit him. I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked and so was he. We sat for a few moments in silence until Dr. Evans said, “Ok, I think we’re done here. I’ll just finish up here and you can go.”
I could go? Just like that? No follow-up or anything? Last time I saw Dr. Evans he told me I would have to go in at least another two times. Even my paperwork said the same thing. Was he really mad that I hit him? Was he really that petty? I mean, he had to expect some sort of repercussion after hearing me tell him he was hurting my foot and ignoring my cry. Right? Maybe speaking out wasn’t the right thing to do. It cost me a third appointment, despite the fact that I tried to point out that he had said otherwise. It was just not my day. I should’ve just stayed quiet and let the doctor do what he knew best.
But, as I later learned, maybe speaking out is good. It happened the following Thursday, during the Tucson Rodeo Parade. Over half the entire city had the day off and traveled to South Tucson to sit on the curb and watch the world’s oldest and largest non-motorized parade. There were horses and cowboys galore, including the world famous Tucson Arizona Boys Chorus, which I used to be a part of when I was younger. You know, before I realized that wearing sparkly bandana’s while singing show tunes was not the road I wanted to head down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t enjoy it all, as I had to work later on that day. Which is why I left early, to make sure I would and could beat the traffic.
About five minutes after I left, five-year-old, Brielle Boisvert came riding down the street on a beautiful white horse, waving and smiling to the crowd. And right in front of my family, is where a tragedy happened. A run-away wagon bumped into Brielle’s horse, throwing her up into the air. As she landed onto the asphalt, her horse trampled over her, along with the run-away wagon and the horses pulling it. My Aunt Sylvia was the first person who rushed out to Brielle’s side and held her hand, telling her it would be alright as her mother and sisters, got off their horses and pushed through the crowd to the fallen cowgirl.
It all happened so fast, that it was almost hard to believe, hundreds of people witnessed the death of a little girl. It was all so terribly tragic as everyone discussed what they saw and what had happened to both the police and to the news crew. The only person who wasn’t talking was my Aunt Sylvia. Every time she tried to talk about it, she would burst out into an emotional flow of tears as she realized that Brielle probably died right there on the street and not on the way to the hospital, as it was reported. The case is still ongoing as police are asking the community for any and all leads as to what could have spooked the horses that trampled Brielle. I feel that my Aunt Sylvia knows a lot about what happened, since she was right there in those last crucial moments and was taking pictures of everything. But she’s not saying anything. And I don’t know how to convince her otherwise.
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