The real estate gods and the chronic disease gods must be having a grand old time in whatever bar they’ve been drinking at these past few years.
I present to you Exhibit A, the building I walk past at least once a week:
That, as you can see, is the Diabe[t]ic Food-Wound Center, located two blocks from my home. Some might say I should consider myself lucky. If I find myself with a festering abscess on my heel, or if I sustain injuries from a over-zealous razor-wielding pedicurist, or if my crappy little dog gnaws off my toe in the middle of the night, I can just hobble around the corner!
To me, though, the Diabetic Food-Wound Center is the embodiment of all that I hate about diabetes. The place is ugly as hell — an eyesore, if you’ll forgive my pun. It looks like the kind of place one would go to purchase a diabetic foot wound, if such a thing were possible (“Ulcers! Half off! This weekend only!”) Every time I pass it, I hear the voices of a hundred members of the diabetes police, chanting horror stories about kidney failure and lost limbs. (It bothers me even more than the Rectal Surgery Center that’s on the next corner. That’s saying something.)
Up until a few weeks ago, the side-yard of the building was populated by a group of rusty, folding chairs that surrounded one of those smokers’ outposts. I always imagined all the Diabetic Foot-Wound Center employees sitting in the afternoon heat, complaining about their “noncompliant” patients, eating pork rinds and puffing on Marlboro Reds.
Even the name of the clinic make me itch: Diabetic Foot-Wound Center. Does that mean the center is diabetic? The foot-wound? Why is foot-wound hyphenated? And whose idea was it to add that disembodied foot to the sign? Isn’t that in poor taste?
The good news is, I’m moving in a couple of weeks, so I won’t see the Diabetic Foot-Wound Center quite as often. Plus, I’m getting a back yard and a front porch and a fireplace and an extra bathroom.
I’m getting the hell away from the ol’ DF-WC, and I’m taking my perfectly healthy feet with me.