Reggie's Toe

Reggie Feste takes his place, staring at the mole on his toe, turning his foot this way and that in his favorite Birkenstocks, his eyes boring into the growth like a surgeon’s knife. Reggie is obsessed with that mole, as he stands in the bleakest place on earth, a hospital ER at 11 pm on a Sunday night in northern California.

Now he is at the front desk, facing the male nurse who sticks a thermometer in Reggie’s mouth, winds a blood pressure cuff around his arm and points casually at the familiar poster behind him. “What is your pain like: 0 to 10?” and Reggie tries to focus, tries to express his come-and-go pain and dizziness, not just in words but numbers.

How ridiculous these little people are, thinking that they could help sum up his life, particularly on this day, the worst of days, the anniversary of his father’s death a year before. The pain cuts through his pelvis repeatedly until he is almost bent over double and he gasps out “eight.” He has had the runs all day. Then he is in one of the curtained rooms and the nurse sticks two plastic cups into his hand. “Go ahead and pee,” she says, “and give us a stool sample.” She points out the bathroom in exasperation. “We’ll test for infections.” He almost falls as he tries to push open the bathroom door, and the nurses at the desk behind him look up but do nothing.

He is the saddest of men, a dweller in the nightmarish kingdom of the sick. The ones who never get well. He has been in the bowels of this hospital again and again, and still the answer is always the same. “Good news Reggie, nothing wrong.” “Your bloodwork is normal.” It is his fault, they seem to say, his lifestyle, his diet, his imaginings, the result of a restless and untidy mind.

The doctors here have heard his perpetual list of woes numerous times. The skin rashes, his troublesome bowels, the angry redness at his knee, where three years ago they found a blood clot in his vein. He pictures it now, a tiny clot still there somehow, despite the medicine he takes, the clot ready to become giant or to burst, to travel to his lungs where it could very well still his breathing. Can they not understand him, the language he speaks, the tongue of the suffering. He knows absolutely that something is wrong with his body. He can smell it on him, the malodorous scent of unwashed hair and skin, ugly and foul.

If he were richer, better looking or more confident, they would believe him; he is sure of it. But instead, he is Reggie the loser, a man with self-esteem the size of a pea, a tall gangly fellow who walks with his shoulders hunched forward, his body apologizing for its very existence. He wears a perpetual frown, moving haltingly through life, always self-deprecating when he speaks.

Reggie is not a stupid man; he has a talent for analysis, so he has researched his symptoms exhaustively, but to no avail. A doctor and nurse come and go; and they tell him his tests are normal; no fever, no infection, and a strong and healthy heartbeat.

He lies back on the gurney and watches the mole on his toe. He wonders if he should take a scissor to it when he gets home. The doctor arrives, young and pretty, and smiles wanly at him. “We cannot find a reason for your symptoms, although we’ve run numerous tests. But come back if the pains get worse,” she says.

“What time is it?” he growls, then turns to the side and realizes the big clock on the wall says 4 am.

“I got here at 11 pm. It’s now almost 4 am. I had to wait hours to hear this,” he complains.

“I know,” the young doctor says. “Some of our staff are out sick, people are quitting, and we don’t have enough nurses. Our medical system is broken. but the truth is you would not get a different answer from any other hospital.”

He rises to a sitting position in the bed, his face reddening to the color of beets. His rage must be evident, for the doctor leaves the room hurriedly.

In the cubicle next to him, a homeless man is trying to get admitted. The doctors argue with him. Everyone can tell he needs a place to sleep for the night. He argues that he needs to be seen by a psychiatrist and although he does have schizophrenia, the doctor is unmoved, noting that his symptoms seem controlled. “You are taking a bed here from someone who really needs it,” she says angrily.

Reggie closes his eyes, trying to shut it all out. He hears an odd screaming noise and his face is wet. He realizes his mouth is open, wide open, and the screams are his.

He has to grip the bars surrounding his bed to quiet down. Finally, they discharge him. He can’t wait to get home, because his favorite snack is waiting for him. A big jar of black licorice, which he has been indulging in all day. After he gets dressed, he looks up “black licorice” on impulse, using his cell phone. Google is such a fount of information. Eating too much black licorice over an extended period of time can be dangerous, he learns, even cause a heart attack. And one sign of over-indulgence in black licorice is diarrhea. The doctors never asked him about his diet.

He walks out of his cubicle in disgust and stomps out of the ER. He sees himself emptying the big tub of black licorice into the trash at home. Maybe he will, and maybe he won’t. He is disconsolate and filled with self-pity.

He opens the door into the bracing night air, glimpses the pinpricks of light in the dark sky. He doesn’t notice the pain in his pelvis or the mole on his toe. Just for the moment, he leaves this forsaken place and his symptoms behind.