Broken toe

Yrs trly has a broken little toe.
Stubbed it on our bedroom chest-of-drawers in the dark getting up to let our dog out in the night.
Not the first time.
First was many years ago in 1959 when I was 15.
I was a stablehand at a boys camp in northeastern MD, and a horse stepped on my foot.
It sort of put me out of commission as a horseback rider, although I could ride bareback.
Saddles were out — that is, stirrups were out.
Finally I was taken to Elkton (“elk-tin”) Hospital in the camp’s navy-blue ’52 Plymouth stationwagon.
That Plymouth was the first all-metal stationwagon ever marketed.
Prior stationwagons were wood-sided.
Elkton Hospital was a return to civilization. Camp was rather rustic, although we had cabins.
The x-ray revealed I had a broken little toe.
Nothing was done.
Nothing was out of alignment, so we just let it heal.
The break was painful for a few weeks — we were near the end of camp.
In 67 years on this planet, I’ve only had three bone-breaks.
Two were broken little toes (probably the same toe), and one was a broken collar-bone when I fell into my bicycle’s steering-stem after my stroke.
All were no cast, no traction.
My toe hurt a little after the stub, but kept hurting.
It reminded me of the 1959 incident.
Finally I went to the good people at Bloomfield Family Practice, the best doctors I’ve ever had, Vincent Yavorek, M.D. (“yuh-VOR-ick”) and Chip Logan, Physician’s Assistant.
“Was that you I just saw, motoring around in a classic Z-car?” I asked Chip.
“Yes it was,” he smiled.
“The car I never bought, but should have,” I said.
“I could still see that oily black pillar of smoke towering above the Battleship Arizona, so I bought a Triumph.
One of the worst cars I’ve ever owned, totally unsuited to pillar-to-post.
I shoulda bought the Datsun 240Z — it was a great car.”
Chip wiggled my toes around — the right little toe was obviously swollen.
“That hurts,” I said, as he worked the toe upward.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just let it heal; everything is in alignment.”
He wrote out an x-ray requisition at Thompson Hospital to see if it was broken.
“It’s broke,” he called back. “You’re in for two-to-three weeks. Go easy on it.”
The one who suffers is not me, it’s our dog.
I’ve usually walked her a lot.

• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Adjacent is the rural town of East Bloomfield, and the village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Thompson Hospital “ is the hospital in nearby Canandaigua. “Bloomfield Family Practice” is affiliated with Thompson. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)