Frickin' Lasers

Gimpy McGimpenstein

This post will be disgusting. I had a medical procedure today, so those of you who don't enjoy hearing about that kind of thing may want to skip down to the thrilling steampunk fiction below.

For those of you still here, this is the gist of it: Plantar Warts. Sounds tasty, huh? And I had a lot of them. Fifteen acording to the surgical waiver, but by the time the podiatrist actually got in there, he said there were more than he remembered from the initial exam. There were only two or three a few months ago, which is why I had let them go so long, but recently they just exploded in an orgy of viral reproduction.

Still with me? Ok, so how do you get rid of that many? We've moved beyond the home remedies and topical treatment phase (duct tape is one suggested option). That leaves laser surgery. And we're not talking pansy-ass low-wattage bladeless eye surgery here, we're talking about a giant red laser beam that burns the fucking flesh from your body, old school.

So I go in, get my foot pumped full of three full jars of anasthetic. This causes me to almost faint, which seems to be a chronic problem with me and needles in the last few years. They leave me there to wait for my foot to slide into an alternate dimension. One issue of U.S. News and World Report later and we're good to go. The doctor pulls the laser into the center of the room, and right away I get a Mr. Bond moment. The thing is huge. The actual control unit is about the size of a dentist's drill, but it's attached to a piece of machinery that looks like it would be more at home on the dorsal turret of the Millenium Falcon. To my right is a large vacuum with a big warning sign: DO NOT USE IN THE PRESENCE OF FLAMMABLE ANASTHETICS. The nurse will use this to siphon off the smell of cooked flesh.

Disinfectant, paper shield, ointment, tap tap, feel anything? and here we go.

The whole procedure took about half an hour. Every now and then the doctor would set down the blaster and switch to a good old fashioned scalpel. At one point he had to dig a little hard and a piece of my foot came flying across the room like a stray toenail clipping. Then out came the wire cutters. No kidding - stainless steel head, black rubber handle. I'm sure they were medically sterile wire cutters, but they were definitely just as useful for installing phone lines as conducting surgery.

When it was all over they bandaged me up, gave me care and cleaning instructions and sent me on my way. The doctor actually told me not to be afraid of the foot. Whatever it may look like, it's not actually that bad. It looks like Rocky Balboa, but he won a boxing match looking like that, so I guess I'll be ok. Driving is certainly more interesting now, and I walk like Torgo, which will surely amuse my co-workers.

In three weeks I go back for the other foot. Because I am a man of science, and I live to entertain.