My best friend was coming over to spend the night for the first time. I could barely sit still while my right foot soaked in a bucket of warm water before she arrived. I had slept over at her house many times, but she had been too afraid to sleep at mine. Her fear baffled me. We just had conquered first grade and she had played happily at my house for countless hours. Besides, the best part of a sleepover is escaping your parents and their rules!
My mom, sitting in a chair across from me, picked up my right foot, wiped it with a towel, and set it on her knee for our nightly ritual. A plantar wart had taken root in the center of my heel–evidence of a summer well-spent at the local pool. My mom assured me the wart wouldn’t hurt me, although as she scraped away the dead skin, I questioned her intentions and kicked her a few times. Afterwards, I admired the progress of the wart’s eviction–my tiny science experiment.
This night, however, the wart surrendered, releasing from my foot and dropping into the bucket of water below. My mom and I cheered. “I want to see it!” I begged, eager to size up the enemy. To my surprise, the wart floated like a tiny jellyfish with long, translucent tentacles swaying in the water. I assessed the damaged to my foot–a deep, yet, smooth, red crater.
“You cannot mention this tonight,” my mom warned. “You’ll freak her out.”
I had briefly forgotten about my long-anticipated sleepover. I imagined my friend’s overreaction, the horror in her eyes. “Duh,” I told my mom.
When my friend arrived, I raced to show her all the cool things in my house. Or least the most interesting things and tried to make them sound cool. After about an hour, I ran out of ideas. I sensed her boredom; she sensed my desperation. I closed my bedroom door and asked, “Wanna see my foot?”
I whipped off my sock and presented my heel. She didn’t scream or gasp. She stared as I told her everything my mom had taught me about warts. I assured her that it was no longer contagious. I studied her face. She seemed curious, not frightened. I put my sock back on to reassure her, just in case.
Later that night, when I was brushing my teeth, I heard my friend talking to my mom in the kitchen. I heard the phone be lifted from its receiver. My mom appeared in the bathroom doorway. “I told you not to talk about your foot!” she scolded me.
Fifteen minutes later, my friend’s mom came to pick her.
So, the main reason I created this blog was because my Facebook friends couldn’t handle my oversharing. Turns out everyone wants to be your Facebook friend until you post something boring, frightening, or disgusting. Well, I’m not boring.
Chronic illness has increased what I like to call my “generous honesty”. Life is too short for small talk and I left all my shame in an ambulance in Florida. I have never sugarcoated my illness and if you ask me what I did last weekend, I am going to tell you which body part broke.
I share my experiences on social media for many reasons:
- I live in solitary confinement and poodles are bad listeners
- Sometimes I need validation that my disease is total shit and I am a badass
- Therapy is expensive and my last therapist quit the profession, which is way more insulting being unfriended on Facebook
But most importantly, my posts help people. Yes, my stories are terrifying and sometimes disgusting, but everyone has body that is probably going to do some scary shit before inevitably falling apart. I feel a duty to normalize illness and disability, because for every ten people who unfriend me, one person privately messages me and thanks me for sharing my experience.
The next summer, shortly after graduating from second grade, the phone rang. “It’s for you,” my mom said.
“Hello?” I answered.
My friend softly stuttered on the other end. She said, “I have wart on my foot, and my mom and I were wondering how you got rid of yours.”