GNARLY NAILS

Oh, such beautiful toenails.
Not a fetishist; just envious.
(But don't those clippers look like 
they're for pruning roses...or
cutting through wire fences?)

In general, my body is holding up well for sixty. No arthritic joints. No unusual aches and pains from my runs and bike rides. (There will always be normal aches, won’t there?) I have dark rings under my eyes which have been there since I was twenty. Not an age issue; just a bad sleeper. Even my hair has (mostly) hung around with grayness confined to the neckline and sideburns. I’m a lucky man.

 

But then I look down at my feet. Egad! Put some socks on.

 

Why did the generations before me only speak of sore joints, receding hairlines and expanding waistlines? (Do senior men drink more beer, move about less or is there a natural aging process that makes six-packs pack up as a rising midriff plateau moves in?) These are legit topics that bring humility to aging, but I could have used some forewarning about toenails. Mine have gone from toppings on “little piggies” to ghastly beasts in and of themselves.

 

Good grief! Is this
my new beach look?

Will I ever wear sandals again?

 

As I began to type in my Safari search window, it quickly autofilled: “toenails old people.” A-ha! So it’s not just me (and my Dad). It’s a thing. Those dang toenails change. Yes, I’m putting this topic front and center. We need to talk toenails.

 

I skipped over the AI response. As a writer, I have a hate-hate relationship with AI. No thanks.

 

Instead, I clicked on a report from the U.S. National Institutes of Health. Much better than scary YouTube videos which I’m sure are out there. Nope. I shall not watch zombie movies, slasher flicks, anything with Tom Cruise or clips about toenail fungus. Like I said, I’m already a bad sleeper.

 

Here’s a little reading material from the NIH:

 

Older people are at an increased risk of nail alterations, including normal age-related changes and disorders that more commonly affect this specific population. Secondary factors are important contributors to pathologic nail changes, including impaired circulation at the distal extremities, faulty biomechanics, infections, neoplasms, and skin or systemic diseases with nail manifestations. These factors can affect primarily the nail plate or involve other components of the nail unit such as the matrix, nail bed, hyponychium, or nail folds with secondary abnormalities in the nail plate. These nail changes can either cause serious symptoms, impairing the daily activities of this older population whose activities might already be restricted, or be asymptomatic but associated with substantial cosmetic problems, leading to negative psychological effects. 

 

Okay, enough of that. Gross. And tragic.

 

By far, not the worst
Google Image pic.

Next, I did a Google Image search: older toenails.

 

I lasted seven seconds. Some version of my big toenails was there. Thicker, hardened nails. Chipped. Slightly gray and/or yellow. 

 

I took solace in seeing much worse. Much, much worse. 

 

If a zombie ever comes for me, I shall take off my shoes and socks, stand on one foot and flash him my particularly creepy big toenail on my left foot. Back, zombie! If my toenails are this bad, imagine how unappetizing my brains and flesh are. Go track down a thirty-year-old with regular toenails. Yummy.

 

The NIH report was written with family doctors in mind. It anticipates that patients will seek medical advice from their doctor. It stresses the importance of early intervention, possibly involving referrals for specialized care. Is this within a podiatrist’s domain? Yeesh. I thought urologists had it bad. 

 

I have not mentioned my toenails—or exposed them—to my family doctor. He’s retiring. I don’t want the poor guy to end his career with frightful images of my toenails. The new guy doesn’t know what he’s in for. I will NOT make a good first impression.

 

Something I didn’t know about aging toenails is they seem to grow slower, too. I suppose that’s handy once your ninety and bending over to clip them feels as strenuous as running a marathon but, for cosmetic reasons, I’d like my nails to speed up their growth.

 

Not my actual foot. But the
purple part bears a resemblance.

As a regular hiker, especially in summer and fall, I hit the trails often. In hitting these trails, I repeatedly hit exposed tree roots and small rocks with the toe of my hiking boots. This happens more often in the final hour or two of my longer hikes. Presumably my feet are as tired as my legs. I must not pick them up as much. Bash. Bash. Bash! My toes, especially the two longer ones on both feet, take the brunt of it. Purple crescents emerge at the base of the nail on both my big toes, presumably something to do with bleeding or bruising. (I’m not Googling that. Anything blood-related makes me prone to fainting.) 

 

Gradually the purple part of the nail grows out. When I say “gradually,” I mean slooooooooowly. In the past few years, I finally get to clip off the purple bits in June, just as I’m hiking again, working on a new purple formation at the base of the nail. With June nearing, the purple splotch has only moved halfway to the nail’s edge. This is proof my nails are growing even slower than last year. As long as I hike, I shall have some part of my already gnarly big toenails that is purple. It’s a little off-putting but the least, I suppose, of my toenail angst.

 

Perhaps the only useful part of this week's 
blog post: long-handle toenail clippers. 
(I fear I would sustain significant injuries.)

I’m glad I never was a foot fetishist nor have I ever dated one. My toes shall not be sucked. Not back when I was twenty and most definitely not now. How does such a person handle this phase of life? Maybe there’s a support group. I’m not Googling. I’ve Googled enough.

 

In fact, I’ve written enough. If you have aging toenails that are a tad wonky, I commiserate with you. If you’re older and have perfectly okay toenails, I’m totally jealous. I may send the zombie your way. If you’re younger, consider yourself warned. Love your toenails as you clip them at regular intervals. You are blessed. 

ROOM AT THE INN

I’ve been going to New York City for a decade now and finally crossed Item #1 off my gay travel itinerary. Evan and I, along with his New Yorker friend, Saul, had a drink at the Stonewall Inn. 

 

Over the years, I’d walked by it several times, strolled through the teensy Christopher Park that is a national monument across the street, even peeked in once or twice, but I’d never lingered. I have a complicated relationship with gay bars and, generally, the thought of parking it on a stool or leaning against a wall by a pool table has zero appeal. 

 

But this was the site of the Stonewall Riots beginning June 28, 1969, the symbolic, if not true, beginning to the gay rights movement and LGBTQ people standing up for themselves. A drink, we agreed. To commemorate history. 

 

As we walked in, a drag queen was beginning the first round of Bingo Night. I ordered a cider, grabbed a stool and didn’t bemoan this low level form of entertainment. We’d make an hour of it, twice as long as I’d anticipated.  

 

In addition to Bingo, the event included free popcorn—topped with M&Ms—and no cover charge. The drag queen called out and often sang Bingo numbers (e.g., “B-10…No, B safe.”). Lady Gaga’s “Abracadabra” and Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” played at a respectful volume rather than with a pulsing beat. This was Monday, after all.

 

In terms of game, the highlight, for me at least, was seeing Evan’s excitement as he won a round of four-corner Bingo. For this feat, he picked a rubber duckie shower speaker from the prize collection. That’s something, right?  One of those things a person doesn’t know they needed until there it is in a flashy box just begging to be picked before the Pokémon stuffie and the Mr. Potato Head set. Let his grin be enough of a prize for me (although Mr. Potato Head would have been my clear choice if B-11 had been called before the game-ending B-5.

 

Did I feel greater empowerment as a queer person from Bingo at the Stonewall? No. Not at all. Did I regret going? Of course not. It turned out to be an innocuous evening but, because it was at Stonewall, I shall always remember it. 

 

Christopher Park, now part of
a National Monument

Drag Bingo Night at The Stonewall will never be as epic as an uprising against the NYPD. It was a perfectly tame Monday night at a rather ordinary bar which happens to be gay. I’m grateful for the ordinariness. More than that, grateful for Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera and others who’d shown up at the bar in late June 1969 just looking for a safe space to hang out for what should have been its own normal, uneventful night.

THE DOCTOR IS OUT

The doctor-patient relationship comes just after hair stylist relationship for me in terms of familiarity. I guess it’s fortunate that I see my stylist, Melissa, considerably more often than I see my doctor. Let good health keep it that way.

 

But a change is coming. Last Wednesday, I saw my family doctor, Scott, for the last time. (Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s one of the things I like about him.) Scott is retiring. I knew this day was coming. Selfishly, I’d hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Sooner happens to be next month. 

 

I’ve been seeing Scott for thirty years. By comparison, Melissa’s only been cutting my hair for nine. 

 

I have no doubt I present challenges to doctors. Prior to Scott, the last family doctor I saw was in Santa Monica, a name I got from a list provided by the HMO that served my employer. That doctor—let’s just call him Dr. No-Go—said at the end of my (first and last) appointment, “I never want to see you again.”

 

I was startled. Did I hear him right? 

 

What was there to mishear?

 

Clearest, perhaps harshest breakup ever. Was he allowed to do that? What would be the point of asserting, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Presumably, those little hammers to test knee reflexes could be weaponized. 

 

Scott knew how to deal with a squeamish, quirky patient like me. As I told him last week, he always regarded me with proper amusement, including the fact I’d show up for appointments in the early years drinking from a bottle of orange juice. “Someone told me it’ll keep me from fainting,” I explained. As he’d ask medical questions or share medical information, I gulped my OJ. 

 

I never fainted in Scott’s office. (Now would be a good time to belatedly apologize to an ophthalmologist and that guy who thought I’d passed out from a seizure during a hearing test.)

 

For at least the first two decades of seeing Scott, I had the biggest crush on him. He had—and has—classic good looks of a quintessential Scotsman: curly auburn hair, freckles, green eyes. My legs would shake; I had a hard time making eye contact. My awkwardness was no doubt seen as squeamishness. Oh, how it was so much more complicated! 

 

Despite the crush, there were a couple of years when I didn’t see Scott. It should come as no surprise that I avoided medical professionals. But then I got melanoma at thirty-four and I’d have to go in for, at the very least, referrals to dermatology specialists to get chunks of skin cut out. Fun times.

 

It wasn’t until 2014 when visits to Scott became considerably more frequent. I fell apart in his office before Easter, dropping from a chair to the floor. It wasn’t on account of fainting and, to this day, I’ve never had a seizure. Instead, I was suicidal. I was having a major mental breakdown. 

 

Scott gave me an Ativan, then asked if I needed to go to the hospital. “Yes,” I said through shakes and tears. His office was only three blocks from St. Paul’s so I did not want to go by ambulance. Instead, he called ahead to alert doctors of my pending arrival and current condition. He had an employee escort me to Emergency. My last words before leaving his office: “Don’t let them send me home.”

 

This week, I had the pleasure of thanking him once again. “You saved my life. I’m certain of that. I have lived eleven years longer—so far—thanks to you. I am immensely grateful for your care that day and since then as well.”

 

Of course, I was crying as I shared this with him. His eyes welled up, too.

 

That was my first stint in the psych ward. I was readmitted in 2017 and I’ve been on long-term disability ever since. In 2019, I was hospitalized for six weeks due to an eating disorder and then spent eight weeks in a group home. In 2021, I had a stay in a crisis care group home. I turned down another eating disorder hospitalization this year. (I’m receiving extensive outpatient support.) 

 

Scott has been the one constant as I’ve navigated my mental health journey since 2014. In that time, I’ve seen a dozen psychiatrists, a half dozen counselors, dietitians, occupational therapists, countless nurses and others in the medical field. So many introductions. But I always had Scott. What will I do without him?

 

Survive. I know that much.

 

“You made a difference,” I repeated several times during my last appointment. “I appreciate you so much. I am full of gratitude and I need to share it.” 

 

I’m guessing Scott is sixty-two. His husband, already retired at seventy, is awaiting full-time experiences together. They are planning a triathlon in the near future…at his husband’s insistence. Scott has always been very active and has gone on many adventure-packed vacations. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, setting aside tears for a joyous laugh. “So many good times are ahead for you. Enjoy retirement!”

 

A final thank you. One long, tight hug. 

 

And with a colonoscopy referral in hand—suddenly much less joy—I said goodbye.

 

Thankfully, there is a new doctor in place to take over the practice. No shoes to fill. Not possible. Just new shoes. I’ll do my best to behave. And, yes, there will be a bottle of orange juice in my backpack. Just in case.

If you are feeling suicidal, there is hope. There is an OTHER SIDE after getting proper support. In Canada and the U.S., the Suicide Crisis Hotline is 9-8-8. Also, 911 is available and medical staff are ready to connect you with support--and care--in hospital emergency rooms. 

 

 

  

PLAYING THE AGE CARD WHILE HIKING

First view from Killing Time
mountain bike trail

Sometimes we make assumptions, we jump to conclusions, we are triggered over what may be innocuous. This happens more frequently when a comment or action seems to touch on our identity. I’ve had many occasions where, rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve taken a perceived shunning as homophobia when, well, maybe I just forgot to put on deodorant. 

 

Did I forget?! I can see myself applying the stick to my underarms but perhaps that was yesterday. Time blurs. Routines sometimes come with blips. As I get older, I’m not as sure of my memory, even regarding what I did five minutes ago. 

 

And, yes, age is the subject of yesterday’s incident that had me feeling too sensitive…and humored at the same time.

 

I consider myself a hiker, but I’ve only done a handful of outings during the past six months. Most of my hiking is in the mountains and I hike far less when trails are covered in snow and ice. It’s not so much the snow and ice—adding crampons to my hiking boots produces miraculous results—it’s the fact the trails are covered. On the hikes I did, the route was less clear in patches where there was only one person’s tracks to follow or, in a couple of cases, the tracks veered onto a trail I wasn’t taking and I had nothing to give me an assured sense I was still on a trail. 

 

My favourite hikes are still snow-covered for at least the next month, but I am now finding trail reports that there are options—no snow; just water and mud. (Hiking boots are themselves amazing… bring on the muck!) 

 

Yesterday, I ventured to Sumas Mountain Regional Park, about an hour from home to do what was supposed to be a 2.5-hour hike, a little bit on the short end in terms of what I like but, hey, I needed to recognize that my hiking legs were out of the habit of being just that. Start small, build up. How responsible of me. 

 

I pulled into the trailhead’s gravel parking lot just before ten in the morning. It was otherwise empty. I’d literally have the mountain to myself. Hurrah. No one’s music, no drones, hopefully no gunshots. (On a hike I did a couple of years ago in the area, there happened to be a shooting range at the base of the mountain. I was especially motivated to do the ascent!) 

 

I did the responsible things prior to taking to the trail. I took a photo of the trail map at the parking lot and texted Evan with a selfie that included what I was wearing and my license plate along with indicating what time I expected to return to the car. Please, let there be no cause for search parties. Or camera crews zooming in on a bug-bitten hiker with a sprained ankle, hauled out on a stretcher.

 

I can be dramatic.

 

My destination: Chadsey Lake and a loop hike taking me past Baker Rock. There was no Baker Rock on the trailhead map but I figured I’d come across a disproportionately enormous boulder and exchange greetings (“Hello, Baker!”), with the noteworthy rock staring back stone-faced.

 

As it turns out, I missed the Chadsey Lake turnoff, a tiny white sign at knee height two minutes from the parking lot. Instead, I found myself on Killing Time, a mountain biking trail that had me going downhill, not uphill. Checking my map photo, I would connect with a Centennial Trail and still reach the lake. No problem. 

 

Somehow, despite a considerable descent, I blocked out any notion that I’d have a considerable ascent as well. Stay in the moment, they say, when hiking. Mindfulness in motion, I call it. Yes, behold the ferns! Wonder how many mountain bikers have broken limbs—and how many per person—after going airborne on the many wooden ramps built on the trail. Er… maybe just focus on ferns.

 

Chadsey Lake

It took two hours to reach the lake. I texted Evan, surprised to have phone reception. It was looking like my 2.5-hour hike would be 4 hours. No problem. This was more in line with the length of hike I like to do. After I sat on a log and viewed Chadsey, I began my return trek, deciding to take a trail marked as “Parking Lot,” most likely the trail I’d missed in the first place. Maybe I’d cut off a bit of time, avoiding another prolonged descent-ascent sequence and coming upon some sprawled-out biker with an arm extended at an impossible angle. (Being squeamish, I’d be no help at all, just fainting at the scene. Sorry, biker dude.)

 

I was suddenly picking up signs easily. In addition to “Parking Lot,” another sign indicated the “East Lookout” was farther past the lake. I had no idea what I’d be looking out at but, figuring I wouldn’t be repeating this hike anytime soon, I decided to seize the day and hike onward. 

 

Much more muck. (Another shoutout to hiking boots!) Much more ascent. 

 

As a hiker or, more broadly, a human being, I’m not a fan of sweating. Ascents mean lots of brow wiping and shirt fanning. I would get used to this as hiking season picked up, but I will never embrace it. (I contend spin class and hot yoga enthusiasts are masochists.)

 

The problem with the trail signage was it failed to provide distances. Was the East Lookout half a kilometre ahead or was it in New Brunswick? The park map also failed to have a scale and the route to East Lookout included many wiggly lines which would make any scale (had there been one) challenging to use to create a distance and time estimate.

 

I’d gone over an hour, still ascending, sweating profusely, hoping I was still on the path to East Lookout but unsure. Knowing I’d taken the long route to Chadsey Lake in the morning didn’t boost my confidence about being on track. I simply kept following little orange squares intermittently nailed onto trees to mark a trail presumably to somewhere. 

 

I heard voices coming toward me and suddenly two labradors were sniffing my legs. Presumably they were piddled out with so many red cedars on offer and the ferns had taken on a redundancy. I was a new find. Very exciting!

 

Two young women (Late twenties? Early thirties?) hollered the standard apology given when off-leash dogs oblivious to personal bubbles offer hearty greetings and close-up knee exams. 

 

No problem. Much better than a bear encounter. Much, much better.

 

“Did you go to East Lookout?” I asked. “How far is it?”

 

“Yes,” one woman said. She looked at her hiking companion. “How long do you think?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

Ah, well. Good. I was hoping for a number less than five, but I wasn’t going to turn back now. So close! The trek up continued. I would not be hiking to New Brunswick, after all. Whew!

 

At the twelve minute-mark, post knee-sniff, I observed a clear trail going straight up on my left. East Lookout? (Please.) No sign. No orange markers. Instead, a trail continued meandering to the right, orange markers aplenty. As I often do on hikes, I hesitated. I pondered. I wanted to take the unmarked path. I sensed it led to East Lookout. But I’m directionally challenged in the best of times. My senses regarding which way to go consistently fail me. Stick to the marked path. Let there be no search parties. 

 

My final piece of logic that kept me on-trail was the fact I wasn’t at the twenty minute-mark. Not even close. Forty percent more time on trail. Keep going!

 

About eight minutes later, I came upon three BC Hydro towers up one final hill. Yes! The towers marked the lookout. Made sense if not something especially scenic. There would be a clearing. I’d have my back to the fenced-in towers and the posted signs warning of possible electrocution. Whatever the view from East Lookout, I would take a few pics, dammit. I’d ooh and aah even if it were strictly performative. “You have reached your destination.”

 

But, no. All around the towers were trees. Just like all the trees along the trail. Nothing distinct. Not even a rock I could call Baker. (That thing was still in hiding, too.)

 

Okay, I know I began this post mentioning that my age may have made me sensitive, presumably on this hike. ’Tis true. Let’s get back to that.

 

The fact is that access to East Lookout was at the twelve minute-mark from when my knees went through doggy inspection. Due to all the looking around I did at the twenty minute-mark—no, I did not climb fences and risk electrocution—I didn’t actually arrive at the lookout until almost an hour after asking how much farther. I’d checked out yet another mountain bike trail (and scored a peekaboo view). I’d circled all around the towers, a couple of times inadvertently. Yes, very directionally challenged.   

 

Here’s where my being sixty and sporting a clearly white beard (finally) comes into play. I wondered if age was a factor when I was told it was another twenty minute-schlep to the lookout. Maybe they looked at me, some guy decidedly in the “sir” range from their assessment. Older guy. Sweating profusely. Gosh, yes, another twenty minutes. For him. 

 

Now, I know that’s ridiculous thinking entering my brain. Blame it on excess perspiration and not enough hydration. I’m the worst at hydrating. If I Google dehydration, one side effect must surely be paranoid thinking that one is too old for whatever activity is contributing to dehydration. 

 

Objectively, twelve minutes and twenty minutes are not far apart. It’s entirely possible that the woman who went with twenty gave that as a valid estimate of the time it had taken them to walk back from the lookout until they came upon me. Maybe she’s bad with time. Maybe they’d truly lost track of time, talking about the dynamics at work, relationship issues or the hot yoga class they were taking that evening. Yes, mascochists. 

 

Maybe there were doggy delays on account of the whole off-leash nature of their hike. Maybe the dogs continued marking red cedars even though the pee stream was running on empty. Maybe they sniffed and tried to track a mole or squirrel. I neither saw nor heard small animals the entire day, but I don’t have a dog’s sense of smell. Maybe an entire warren of bunnies existed between the lookout and the point where we came into contact. 

 

So many maybes. Why did I even entertain that they’d added on extra time for a sweaty, grey-bearded oldster to reach East Lookout? 

 

Why hadn’t I just followed my gut and gone up the unmarked trail in the first place. I’d have just been pleased to arrive early and would have applauded my fitness. I’d never have gone down the I look old tunnel because there wouldn’t have been a setback. 

 

Good grief—clearly an oldster’s expression—sometimes hiking isn’t mindful at all. Sometimes it offers too much time for obsessive thought.

 

View from East Lookout

My 2.5-hour hike turned out to be a 6-hour endurance test. Oh. My. Quads. I took a few Advil when I got home. And belatedly hydrated. But way to go, old guy. I’m readier for hiking season now. Let the muscles ache less next time.

 

Was East Lookout worth it? Absolutely! See for yourself.