I bite my toenails!

While hooked up to the dialysis machine this morning, I thought of this habit of mine that many may characterize as, "gross", but I don't care. As I stared down at my feet while at an incline position, it was obvious I had been chewing a bit too often.

Instantly I remembered how lengthy and strong my finger and toenails had become during my two month or so long (2014) hospitalization for this disease. Though I was out-of-my-mind (didn't comprehend anything going on in and around me) - I guess, due to the sudden stroke and daily medications administered during my duration; still at some point, I was able to notice this first time occurrence ~ finally, finger & toenails!

I've always been a nail biter who desired nails that were real. Nails that I can groom and click on the desk or use to scratch my back. Nails that were feminine, adding beauty to my chubby masculine hands. And when my nails grew, I was silently elated. Unable to speak or adequately jester then, I'd marvel at them when cognizant to see or feel them. Amazed, I'd click them on my hospital table.

Fondly, I remembered my habitually estranged dad visiting me at the hospital. Sitting quietly by my bedside --with thoughts unsaid, unknown but felt through his concerned eyes. Through his touch, finally, I felt love from him. No longer able to experience him (estranged himself again), however, I'll never forget that feeling. Til this day, when I think of him, when I long for him, I go back to those hospital days. When I was at my most vulnerable, weakest, neediest moment. I had a piece of him.

Meticulous, and somewhat as anal as I, he'd bring nail clippers to the hospital along with a few other grooming things. And on one visit, he'd brush my teeth gently & lovingly. He'd attempt to feed me (eventually, brilliantly teaching me how to chew with music - "Oh Happy Day" by Edwin Hawking singers played as I eventually relearned to swallow in that very moment). He'd moisturize my legs and feet with lotion. He'd move on to clip & file my nails. Focused and precise, I didn't stop him as I could have easily put my hand up, languaging "stop, not the nails dad!". But this was a moment with me and my dad. A first time moment never ever had, that will forever be cherished.

Wow, look how the topic of  "toenail consumption" unintentionally got me here - writing about something deeper more heartfelt. I digress...

Well, sadly here I am, finger and toenails are no more. Nor is my dad, who is alive, choosing to remain in my life. Both gone, both were good while they lasted.

Eventually, my nails began to break and chip. My attempts to salvage them with glue or gel tips on broken ones became futile. With now an assortment of nail polish colors collected, this new found luxury has become a part of my past. Regrettably, I lost my will power. So now, I bite. Nibble on clean finger and toenails - focusing more on the toes while trying to preserve the fingernails.

Looking at my embarrassingly [un]manicured feet (and hands) - as I lay surrounded by library books - cuticle and skin poorly maintained, sigh. My frustration makes me want to nibble even more, if only I could get my foot to my mouth while on this dialysis machine without bells going off.