Seven or eight months ago, I tried to trim a callous when the sharp instrument I was using slipped and cut a big hole into my toe.

I have very flat feet and have had callouses for several years.

I knew better than to treat my feet myself, I am a diabetic, and injuries and infections can lead to awful problems, including amputations.

I used to see an orthopedic surgeon for a couple of years; then, she moved away. Hubris is like a week in many men, you pull it up from one place, and it springs up in another.

Like many men, hubris was a part of my diet growing up. I can beat it back, but I seem to have trouble getting rid of it, even when my own health and well-being are involved.

Because of my own failure to take responsibility for my body, and my precious foot, upon which I  depend to move anywhere, a minor medical problem became an eight-month and deepening crisis.

I really hated being compared to all those stubborn me who can’t ever admit their vulnerability and often pay for it with their lives.

But the fact was, I had a good size hole in my toe. And I put it there. I wish there were some excuse for me to hide behind, but I haven’t found one.

Still, I dismissed it a trivial, nothing I couldn’t handle,  and used all kinds of over-the-country medicines – plastic skin, antibiotics, and healing creams and continued my own incompetent efforts at treating a wound I could barely even see.

If I had bothered to go online for ten minutes, I would have read about ulcerous wounds and the threat to diabetes. But I didn’t bother; I was too busy.

Day after day, I told myself the wound was healing, and I didn’t really notice it was just getting angrier and deeper.

Although I do not suffer from neuropathy,  and the pulse in my feet is strong,  I am a diabetic and such wounds often become ulcerated. And then worse.

First, the ulcer, then the infection, then the crisis. Many patients – most men- who are injured in this way stay that way for most of their lives rather than focus for a couple of weeks and keep their feet off the ground.

Feet are very close to bones, and once bones get an infection, things can get dire for people with diabetes. The cures to ulcerated wounds on feet can be laborious, complicated, and frustrated.

I tried to treat mine for months before I mentioned it to my primary care physician, and she told me to go and see a podiatric surgeon – Dr. Daly.

Dr. Daly is serious, efficient, conscientious. We aren’t going to spend an hour laughing and trading stories, but she is the kind of doctor I intuitively respect: brisk, clear, honest.

Dr. Daly took one look at my wound and ordered surgery right there on the spot. Clamps and knives were brought in, lights, trays, nurses and techs,  bandages, and gauze to soak up the blood. And there was a lot of blood.

Why do men do such stupid things, I thought? What is missing in our gene pool that regulates common sense and self-interest? Why is listening so hard for us?

Is that ancient warrior/protector gene still running through my veins? Can I get rid of it?

Dr. Daly instantly operated on the toe, put me in a ” boot” designed to keep the injury off the ground and away from hard objects., cleaned out the wounds, prescribed antibiotic cream. I had to keep the foot completely dry for weeks and wrapped in heavy bandages all the time.

I have learned some things in my life, and if I can’t always ignore my hubris, I can recognize it when I see it. Dr. Daily and the nurses and Maria and I had some frank talks, and I got the message.

I spent two weeks at home doing another, going nowhere, except for my daily visit to Moise and his family.

I had this surgery two times, and today, after all this time, I went to see Dr. Daly again.

She said the wound had healed, there was a small fraction of the wound still closing, but it was clearly healing. No more boot, but bandages and antibiotics for three more weeks.

The pandemic still delays my new orthotics; they should be here in a few weeks.

What happened was that I just kept re-injuring itself. My toes and feet are important to me, and like my heart, I wish to keep them all going for a while.

This time, I did what I was told, and it worked.  Soon, I can return to the gym. No pedicures, but I can shower and move in my regular shoes.

Maria was amazingly patient and diligent. You’d almost think she loved changing my bandages.

I’ve had three surgical experiences in this hospital system; all had positive outcomes; I was impressed with all of the physicians and overwhelmed by the kindness and concern of the nurses.

I learned something each time, and one of the things I learned was that the patient’s attitude is critically important and is often the deciding factor in the outcome.

As someone who ignored health care proudly and openly for many years, I am learning to see it as a system I need to understand, not just bitch about.

Every doctor isn’t wonderful and miraculous; every patient is not appreciative or cooperative; every hospital is not perfectly run.

I call that life. Maybe the Ancient Gods were perfect, but none of them are around anymore, which suggests something.

I continue to feel fortunate for all the complaining about health and the scandal of a country that doesn’t make it free to everyone; I am grateful to my doctors and learning to listen to them, ask them questions,  and for the most part, to do what they ask.

I don’t need to be a robot; they don’t need to be gods.

Dr. Daly may have saved my toe or even my foot from an injury of my own foolish making. All that time, all that money, all those bandages, all that pain and discomfort.

All my fault.

As I drove home from Dr. Daly’s office, I realized I had forgotten to thank her for taking my dangerous mistake and fixing it. It took a lot of skill and patience.

I called her office and left a message thanking her for fixing my mistakes.