The Adventures of Wart Boy and Clarabelle

I don’t really have a nickname, but if I were to bestow one upon myself (because giving yourself a nickname is always a fine idea) I would likely be called Wart Boy. Unfortunately for Wart Boy the nickname isn’t clever or meaningful on any level. I am Wart Boy because of my propensity to host and grow warts (the boy part is fairly self-explanatory). Despite my portly appearance, I’d like to think I’m generally of good health. I rarely get sick or catch colds. But when it comes to defending myself against the virus that causes warts I’m 72-pound weakling with girlie arms.

All my life I’ve been prone to getting warts. About twice a year I’d have to see the doctor to get a wart or two frozen off. It was no big deal—I considered it part of my routine checkup. I’ve had so many warts removed from my body I consider myself to be an amateur dermatologist (or at least one who only works with warts). A wart here. A wart there. All in all: relatively no big deal.

One of my favorite wart stories (that’s right: I have more than one) occurred when my beloved cat scratched me across the back of my hand. This was nothing new: my cat had anger issues and routinely attacked for no reason (just like his master). What made this attack unique is that in that inch-long/millimeter-wide scratch, a straight line of warts grew. It was very fine: to the untrained eye it look like a wrinkle or a scar. But I knew better: the wart virus saw a weak spot in my skin; thus, growing an inch-long/millimeter-wide colony on my hand.

Most people don’t know a lot about warts. I’m not most people: I can tell you warts don’t come from kissing frogs or playing in mud. Warts are caused by a virus and just like any virus it’s up to your body’s immune system to fight it. As of this time there’s no vaccine for warts (not that it would help: there’s a vaccine for measles and that’s not working out too well). For whatever reason my immunity system has a weak spot when it comes to warts. It’s almost like the warts are Germany and my immune system is France: go ahead and conquer all you want because we’re not fighting back. I don’t know why I have this deficiency. I blame my parents—but that’s because it’s easy to blame everything wrong with me on my parents.

I’ve had a particularly bad run on warts over the past four years. They’ve been springing up and doctors have had so-so results removing them. For every two warts that disappear three more take their place. Some guys don’t want to leave. I’ve had one wart on the bottom of my foot for about six years now. Doctor kept treating it but it wouldn’t go away. After a couple years of treatment she spoke frankly about the situation.

“Does it hurt?”

“Nope.”

“Then just leave it there. It’s not going away and I’m getting tired of treating it.” And that’s how the second-longest member of my family came to be accepted.

Over the past six years I’ve seen five different dermatologists (healthcare in America: where consistency and good treatment aren’t as important as insurers’ profits). I’ve had a steady relationship with the same doctor for the past six months, but I didn’t feel like we were getting anywhere. I thought this fellow was too gentle with my warts. I secretly wished he went Christian Grey and inflicted some pain on me. While the doctor technically went to medical school and technically know what he was doing, I felt like I had 30-years of real world wart experience: I knew the delicate treatment wasn’t working. I was considering asking my insurance company if I could see a different doctor when the Fates made that decision for me. Dr. Tender was unable for a scheduled appointment, so the clinic set my appoint with a different doctor.

The new doctor was completely different from Dr. Tender. He didn’t wine me or dine me. He chose to give it to me hard and rough. I can only assume he is not a gentle lover because he made me cry and beg for more all at the same time.

The day after my visit I had a large blister on the bottom of my foot. The blister was about the size of a grape and dark purple (probably from all the blood inside). I had expected a blister; I was not expecting one that large. I wasn’t going to be able to put weight on it, so I called in sick to work and stayed off my feet all day. I took a picture of it because it I had never seen a blister like that (that’s my philosophy when it comes to pictures: if you’re looking at something you’ve never seen before, take a picture of it).

By the second day the blister had grown. At least I thought it had grown. It now looked to be in between the size of a grape and a golf ball. I took a picture of it again and compared it to yesterday’s photos. Indeed, it did look bigger. Being the ever-present scientist, I needed to be sure. I took a Sharpie and outlined the blister. This way I would have definitive proof of if it was growing.

I was not pleased about missing a second day of work. Staying at home and getting paid to do nothing might sound appealing to some. Not to me: I was beyond bored. At least if you’re home sick with a cold you feel like garbage so you sleep all day. My mind was alert. My body was fine. I couldn’t stand or walk, so I had nothing to do but sit on the couch. If it was baseball season I’d be okay because I could watch that. But it wasn’t baseball season, so the only thing I could do was complain about how bored I was. Luckily for the Wife she was at work and didn’t have to hear me whine. Unluckily for me I had no one to whine to.

I knew I didn’t want to miss a third day of work. At this point I had resolved to popping it myself. If the blister was gone I’d be able to walk. I couldn’t really decide if it was a good idea or bad idea. Dr. Google was generally split, citing concerns such as infections. If an infection was the only downside I wasn’t worried. I get cut all the time and never get infections. My body has a strong immune system (except for the whole wart thing). I knew I would be able to accomplish it in a sterile manner. I ran this idea by The Wife and she emphatically shot it down. I believe her exact word were: “Are you crazy?”

My mother routinely drained our cat’s blisters. He frequently would get in fights (did I mention he had an anger/aggression problem). One of the common results of a cat fights are huge blisters that are cause by cuts in their skin. My mom would take a needle and drain out cat’s fight blister. Given her history of amateur (cat) healthcare, I figured she would endorse the idea of self-treating the blister. But to my shock she said it was a horrible idea and I should just wait it out.

Disappointed that I couldn’t anyone to back me up, I asked for my brother’s opinion. I figured he–being a guy–would be very well-versed in the idea of self-surgery. What red-blood American male out there hasn’t pop, poked or picked at areas of his body he probably shouldn’t? But when even he said it would be a bad idea, I started to doubt myself. If this many people think it’s a bad idea maybe I shouldn’t pop the blister myself.

When I woke up that third morning there was no doubt it was bigger. The blister was now the size of a racquet ball and had moved past the markings I made with the Sharpie. There was no need to compare to previous pictures: this thing was definitely bigger (I took a picture of it anyway). I called in sick to work and fought of boredom by watching “Lethal Weapon 3”. At this point the blister had become so large it felt like a new, independent member of my family. I couldn’t go out to dinner because of the blister. I couldn’t wash the dishes because of the blister. This growth on my foot had become such a huge part of my life I felt like I should name it. Ralphie the cat. Steve the plant. Alas, I couldn’t come up with anything I liked.

The Wife came home in a bit of a mood because she was also tired of the blister. She compared it to the cow eyeballs her students dissected in class. “I almost lost my lunch watching kids cut the eyeballs open because that thing on your foot looks like a cow’s eye. Same size. Same color. You should call it Clarabelle.”

While Clarabelle was clearly a big part part of my life I was sick of looking at her. I sorely wanted to go back to work. I desperately wanted to be able to get to the bathroom without having to crawl. By the time day four rolled around, I decided to call the doctor and have him look it. I had let Clarabelle get big enough.

So I went to doctor. Did the waiting room thing. When I saw him he asked how I was doing. “Well, I’ve had an unexpected side effect,” I told him and remove my sock. “As you can see, I have a huge blister on the bottom of my foot and I haven’t been able to go to work in five days.”

“You could have just popped it,” he said. I glared angrily at my wife.

The doctor got out a scalpel and popped the blister. The Wife said it was the grossest thing she’s ever seen (that because she didn’t have to see a person being squeezed out of her who-ha). Fluid drained from the blister. Not thick, stinky puss. A reddish flow of water drained from my foot like a faucet left on low while you brush your teeth. It took a few minutes to get everything out. What else would you expect from a blister the size of a peach?

Clarabelle is gone and I can now walk again. But part of me misses her–the way you miss any member of your family. Good thing I still have the pictures to remember her by.