As if being small for her fourteen years and having braces to straighten crooked teeth wasn’t enough, Emma had warts. Not just one or two, but clusters of them. On all her fingers and both her thumbs.
It was summer time, so wearing gloves wasn’t an option and even long sleeves would be conspicuous. At school she kept her hands in her pockets as much as possible. Everyone, from her mother to the local doctor, assured Emma that warts had a mind of their own and would one day simply vanish. The ‘cures’, they said, were not the least bit effective and, if the warts did disappear as a result of applying some vile concoction, they would reappear.
Despite not believing in them, her mother tried every wart-removing product she could find. She painted foul-smelling liquids on Emma’s fingertips, covered them in nail polish, wrapped them in cling film overnight and paid her various sums of money to ‘buy them’ as her grandmother had done. Sometimes the warts shrank in size or number but they were always back the next day.
Emma bought a pack of nail files and every morning she filed her fingertips. It didn’t remove the warts, but it reduced them so they weren’t visible unless you looked closely. Next morning, there they were again.
The school holidays came. The warts flourished. As the new school year approached, Emma became desperate. There was no way she could suffer another year of torture. She begged her mother to take her to a skin specialist. Studying the strange-looking man as he checked her fingers, Emma wondered if the kids at school had teased him about the mole on his nose and his frizzy ginger hair.
After his examination, the specialist repeated what they already knew. There was no cure. One day Emma’s immune system would simply get rid of the warts. He could freeze them off, he said, but it was almost certain they would return.
Emma seized on the word ‘freeze’. How long would freezing take, she demanded? Could he finish it before school started? The doctor considered the question carefully. It would definitely require more than one session, he explained. It would be painful. Very painful. The length and number of sessions would depend on how much pain Emma could bear. It might take dozens of painful sessions. How brave was she?
He advised Emma to go home and think it over. When she was ready she should ring and make the first appointment. On the way home and over dinner that night, Emma and her mother discussed the doctor’s advice. All night Emma tossed and turned, wondering just how painful freezing the tips of her fingers would be and how much pain she could bear before asking the doctor to stop.
In the shower the next morning, Emma studied her fingers. Was it her imagination or had the warts shrunk during the night? It certainly seemed so. She dried herself, dressed and went to find her mother. Mum was sceptical, but suggested they wait a day or two before ringing the surgery.
Next morning both Emma and her mother could see the difference. The warts had vanished from some fingers and were visibly smaller on others.
On the third day, Emma’s mother rang the doctor. “We won’t need another appointment, thank you,” she told him. “You must be a witch doctor because you seem to have frightened those warts away.”
The doctor smiled as he put down the phone. Sometimes the old ways were the best.
It was summer time, so wearing gloves wasn’t an option and even long sleeves would be conspicuous. At school she kept her hands in her pockets as much as possible. Everyone, from her mother to the local doctor, assured Emma that warts had a mind of their own and would one day simply vanish. The ‘cures’, they said, were not the least bit effective and, if the warts did disappear as a result of applying some vile concoction, they would reappear.
Despite not believing in them, her mother tried every wart-removing product she could find. She painted foul-smelling liquids on Emma’s fingertips, covered them in nail polish, wrapped them in cling film overnight and paid her various sums of money to ‘buy them’ as her grandmother had done. Sometimes the warts shrank in size or number but they were always back the next day.
Emma bought a pack of nail files and every morning she filed her fingertips. It didn’t remove the warts, but it reduced them so they weren’t visible unless you looked closely. Next morning, there they were again.
The school holidays came. The warts flourished. As the new school year approached, Emma became desperate. There was no way she could suffer another year of torture. She begged her mother to take her to a skin specialist. Studying the strange-looking man as he checked her fingers, Emma wondered if the kids at school had teased him about the mole on his nose and his frizzy ginger hair.
After his examination, the specialist repeated what they already knew. There was no cure. One day Emma’s immune system would simply get rid of the warts. He could freeze them off, he said, but it was almost certain they would return.
Emma seized on the word ‘freeze’. How long would freezing take, she demanded? Could he finish it before school started? The doctor considered the question carefully. It would definitely require more than one session, he explained. It would be painful. Very painful. The length and number of sessions would depend on how much pain Emma could bear. It might take dozens of painful sessions. How brave was she?
He advised Emma to go home and think it over. When she was ready she should ring and make the first appointment. On the way home and over dinner that night, Emma and her mother discussed the doctor’s advice. All night Emma tossed and turned, wondering just how painful freezing the tips of her fingers would be and how much pain she could bear before asking the doctor to stop.
In the shower the next morning, Emma studied her fingers. Was it her imagination or had the warts shrunk during the night? It certainly seemed so. She dried herself, dressed and went to find her mother. Mum was sceptical, but suggested they wait a day or two before ringing the surgery.
Next morning both Emma and her mother could see the difference. The warts had vanished from some fingers and were visibly smaller on others.
On the third day, Emma’s mother rang the doctor. “We won’t need another appointment, thank you,” she told him. “You must be a witch doctor because you seem to have frightened those warts away.”
The doctor smiled as he put down the phone. Sometimes the old ways were the best.