After two surgeries designed to save my toe (the same one that had cancer in 2020 and through nearly half of 2021), my foot surgeon and I have decided to stop pretending and simply… not do that anymore.
This feels like a mature outcome. A respectful one. At some point, you have to accept when a toe has chosen a different life path.
I briefly considered asking if I could keep it. Not in a dramatic way—more like, Hey, do you offer curbside pickup for body parts? But it’s not a whole leg, and I didn’t want to seem greedy. They can have it. I’ve had it for almost 49 years. That feels fair.
Still, I did wonder about cremation. Surely people cremate toes? Or at least someone has tried. Maybe the ashes could be scattered into the ocean. Or placed into a necklace. Nothing says “closure” like wearing your former toe around your neck at a dinner party and refusing to explain it.
This is where my sister entered the conversation and immediately made it worse.
She suggested I have the toe pickled.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Pickled. Preserved. Floating.
I don’t know where one even pickles a toe. Is this something the hospital offers if you ask nicely? Do you bring your own vinegar? Is it artisanal? Do you get to choose between dill and sweet, or is that a decision for later once the shock wears off?
I briefly imagined opening my refrigerator and finding it between the olives and the mustard—just there, suspended in brine, preserved, smug, and somehow still judging my life choices. I imagine this is when a doctor would gently suggest I stop being in charge of my own medical decisions.
Cremation, by comparison, suddenly felt extremely normal. Tasteful, even. Respectable. Something you could explain to people without them slowly backing away.
The amputation itself, oddly enough, isn’t even the worst part of this news.
The real tragedy is that my other foot—the one with the bunion that desperately needs minimally invasive surgery—is not being fixed yet. Which means another full year of practical shoes, supportive soles, and pretending I don’t care about footwear.
More importantly, it means another year without my cowboy boots.
I own beautiful cowboy boots. Real ones. Confident ones. The kind that make you feel like a person who has her life together, even if she is actively Googling “can you pickle a toe” at midnight.
And now they wait. In the closet. Judging me.
I know, objectively, that this is not the biggest thing I’ve ever survived. I have endured worse than a rebellious toe and delayed footwear gratification. But loss is sneaky. It shows up disguised as a joke and taps you on the shoulder when you aren’t paying attention.
So yes—the toe is going.
Yes—I will be fine.
Yes—I will almost certainly make inappropriate jokes about it forever.
But if you see me next year still talking about my cowboy boots like a widow talks about her late husband, please mind your business.
Some losses take time.
Absurdities and Fires 