“I’m going into the MATRIX,” my son announced. “Or more accurately, I’m getting the matrix out of me,” he laughed. “And I’m just telling you because I’m probably going to need a few days off of work next week.”
It was a big moment for both of us.
Since he officially became an adult a dozen months ago, he has managed most of his routine medical care without me. He’s dealt with dermatology, dentistry, and now the fascinating world of podiatry with a kind of determination I didn’t really expect.
This procedure - a Matrixectomy - was a little difficult to wrap my head around… So I Googled what turned out to be a surprisingly generic description of the permanent removal of the toenail.
It was the first medical decision he’s made on his own, having visited the podiatrist on numerous occasions hoping to fast-track the healing of a toenail that had become ingrown after an injury in high school.
As I perused the pros and cons—conveniently highlighted by green checkmarks and red Xs, respectively—I had some concerns. For one, the word “PERMANENT” haunted me.
Like the feeling of unease I felt when I had been the one in charge of signing off on his first-ever cavity filling and forgetting to specify that he would probably prefer a tooth-colored filling instead of one of those silvery ones that seem to make everyone look like movie villains, or at the very least like they’ve got a wad of licorice stuck to their teeth.
Luckily, the dentist has phased out the mercury amalgam fillings now that modern technology has made the more popular composite resin version equally durable.
Still, it didn’t seem right that he should go by himself … so I offered to drive him … you know … just in case the procedure hurt so much he didn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel.
“Technically, this is a surgery.”
He understood my reasoning, and obliged my concern. Also, he made no secret of his aversion to needles, nor did he disagree that maturity had not ameliorated the condition. It would be nice, after all, to have a hand to squeeze … for luck.
Which is what I fully intended to be … a silent presence with an available appendage for moral support.
And I was able to do it all through the preliminary moments … when the doctor – in one of the nicest offices I had ever seen – was dutifully preparing his big toe to have a portion of the nail excised and asking all the medical questions one would ask to be thorough.
My son answered with ease and accuracy as I sat mum and bounced my leg nervously.
But when all was set and ready to start, the needle being the worst part, the doctor began asking other questions … ones I knew wouldn’t be able to distract him from the “pinch.”
“Do you have any pets?”
“We just got a puppy,” I exclaimed with the exaggerated excitement of a bad actor breaking out in their first role in community theater.
“Mom, let’s just let your son tell me.”
I took no offense. I understood what she was trying to do, and in a moment, with his face all scrunched in pain, she would understand what I had been trying to do.
That’s about the time the office therapy dog moseyed in and began sniffing our shoes, then curled up in a corner and became a silent presence.
“He does that when someone is anxious,” the doctor explained. “Somehow he knows.”
“Honestly, I think he’s here for my mom.”
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