I am tapping out this story on my phone using my knuckles. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I finish. Of course, I won’t finish for a while now, becuase it’s hard to type with your knuckles. I keep hitting wrong letters all over the place. But this is the only way I can think to occupy myself. I can’t eat. I can’t go to the bathroom. I can’t even touch my phone with my fingertips anymore. I can’t really touch anything with my fingertips anymore.
But let me start at the beginning.
I guess it’s ironic, but a few weeks ago I was studying the Mohs scale in school for a project. If you’re unfamiliar, this scale compares the hardness of objects by their ability to make scratches on each other. Diamond, one of the hardest minerals in existance, ranks at a 10. Fingernails are supossed to rank at a 2.
I first noticed it when I was clipping my fingernails. It was only 4 days ago — it feels like a lifetime ago. I had to squeeze on the clipper much harder than usual, which puzzled me but I didn’t think much of it; maybe I was using a different clipper and I didn’t notice it, maybe my hand was tired from jerking it too much, who knows.
I forgot about it for a while, until I went for a run later that day and got an itch at the back of my neck. The damned bugs around here are insane — I must get 2 or 3 mosquito bites every time I go running. I’m pretty sure it was a mosquito bite that made me reach around my head and scratch my neck. Angry at the bugs, I scratched hard, and I let out a cry and stopped in my tracks when I felt a searing pain make its way down my spine. I pulled my hand back and my fingernails were dripping with blood. I gingerly touched them and noticed that they were all much sharper than before.
It must have been a different nail clipper after all, I told myself. Or maybe my clipping technique is off. I had no idea what to think of it, but my neck seemed still to be bleeding so I ran straight home, self-conscious the whole time of my abnormally-sharp fingers.
I raced up to my room and took off my white shirt. I gasped when I saw the giant red streak all the way down the back. I didn’t know the cut was that bad. I ran downstairs and asked my dad where we keep the bandages. He looked over at me and started when he saw my neck, but he stayed calm and found the good-quality butterfly bandages he has, the ones that gently pull the skin together from both sides to help the wound heal. He helped me put on the bandages — his hands were bloody when he finished. I told him I scratched myself while running, and he seemed apprehensive, saying he’d never seen a scratch that bad, but I had no time to explain about my fingernails; I was desparate to take a shower and wash this blood off.
When I got to the bathroom, I forgot about my fingernails and opened the shower curtain a little too aggressively. As I did, I heard a horrible ripping sound and felt a terrible pain shoot up my hand. I had cut a huge hole down the middle of the curtain, and in doing so bent 2 of my fingernails back a bit. I could see a tiny spot of blood pooling underneath one of them. They seemed like they were all getting sharper. I decided I had to try to file them down before I took a shower. But a regular file probably wouldn’t work, so I got creative.
I explained to my dad about what was happening. I didn’t mention the shower curtain though, because it seemed sort of embarrasing. He thought I was being kind of dramatic, as I admittedly often am, but he showed me to the sandpaper anyway. I went back upstairs and laid the sheet of sandpaper on my wooden bedframe and scratched my fingernails horizontally on it. They were wearing away much slower than they usually did, but I was able to file them down until they weren’t that sharp anymore. Yes, I could probably still cut myself if I scratched too hard again, but they seemed much less dangerous now. I went back to the shower and opened the curtain again and this time I didn’t rip it. I washed myself, even the sensitive bits, with no trouble from the fingernails.
I thought this strange episode was over, until the next morning when I was scrolling through my phone. I had done a good job filing my fingernails — they weren’t sharp anymore. That must really have been bad clipping technique. But I noticed some weird scratches on the glass of my phone, right where I was scrolling. Where did those come from, I asked myself. I’m always so careful with my phone. I haven’t dropped it for ages. I don’t even use a case on it anymore. (I guess you could say I’m too confident, but in the 3 years I’ve had this phone I’ve been fine without one.) So a series of deep scratches in the glass puzzled me. I scratched my head trying to make sense of it when I remembered what had happened yesterday.
Don’t worry, I didn’t end up cutting my head open, but I jerked my hands away from my body and looked carefully at my fingernails. They were glossier than usual and they seemed to have a greenish tint. A sense of dread worked its way up from my gut. I gently touched my phone screen with my fingernail and noticed a tiny scratch where there had been none before. I threw my phone to the ground in surprise.
You see, glass is a 5.5 on the Mohs scale. The special patented reinforced glass on my phone is probably even higher. Fingernails are never supposed to be able to scratch glass. Try scratching your phone with your fingernail right now, as hard as you’d like, it scientifically won’t scratch. (If it does, I recommend you become very scared right now, I don’t know if this thing I have can happen to other people too.)
I had no idea what I would do. I can’t go through life never using a touchscreen device again. I decided to try to file my fingernails again using the sandpaper so that they would be shorter and wouldn’t get in the way as much.
I set up the sandpaper again, stuck out my pointer finger, and started rubbing. And rubbing. And rubbing. I was whipping my arm back and forth and pressing my fingernail into that sandpaper as hard as I could. But nothing happened, except that the fingernail got a little hot to the touch because of all the friction. I even tried rubbing the top flat part of my fingernail on the sandpaper too. If you try doing that gently with a file, you’ll notice tiny scratches in your fingernail (much like some of the scratches on my phone screen). But I couldn’t scratch my fingernail with anything. Out of curiosity, I grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen, and to the best of my efforts, I couldn’t scratch my fingernail or cut it in any way.
I was starting to freak out now so I went to my dad and told him everything, including the details of the shower curtain. He was skeptical, but I gave him the steak knife and invited him to try to scratch any of my fingernails with it. He obliged and I’ll never forget the look of confusion and terror on his face when he discovered he couldn’t. He told me to heat up some water and soak my hands in it for an hour or so to try to soften everything up.
Sitting with the hot water relaxed me a bit, but it did nothing for my fingernails. After an hour, they were still as hard as can be. My dad said he would take me to the doctor the following day if nothing improved. I found a pair of touchscreen gloves in my closet and I was able to go the rest of the day without much difficulty.
The next morning, I woke up to a throbbing pain in my middle finger. The fingernail was a deep purple, unlike the other ones, which looked even greener than the day before. I must have gotten a cut underneath it when I opened up the shower curtain.
The 65 minutes until my appointment with the doctor were agonizing. I tried to scroll through Instagram to take my mind off of things but the touchscreen gloves were more uncomfortable than the previous day. I couldn’t figure out why until I noticed that my fingernails were a couple millimeters longer than they were before. They never grow that fast. I was getting more nervous by the second. My heart was pounding and I lay down on my bed and worked through the pain until it was time for my appointment.
The doctor said it was a subungual hematoma. He said that the name is the scariest part of this condition because it’s so easy to treat — you scratch a tiny hole into the fingernail to drain the excess blood. The terrible pain, he said, was because the blood was causing pressure against the sensitive skin underneath the fingernail. I started at the explanation. The doctor tried to stay soothing but it was clear he was getting kind of annoyed. He said that the procedure was painless because there aren’t any nerves in the fingernail, and that there was nothing to worry about. I started saying something about the Mohs scale but he wasn’t listening and started scratching away at my fingernail with a small needle.
It was after 3 minutes of this that he asked me what I had meant by the Mohs scale. He said the procedure never usually took this long; he scratched his head in puzzlement. I told him about the events of the previous 3 days and he grew more concerned by the minute. He said he’d be back with the surgeon. I was happy to hear this — I thought that the surgeon would have better equipment than a needle to fix my fingernails.
The surgeon came in with a giant electric drill. It looked friendlier than a typical drill — it was a pretentious medical drill, after all — but it was a drill nonetheless, and I grew more nervous looking at it. I remembered, though, that it might be the only thing that could help me with this terrible fingernail pain.
The surgeon told me that the doctor had informed her of my situation. She gently clamped my middle finger to the table and turned on the drill. “This’ll be quick,” she said.
52 seconds later, she sighed. “What is wrong with this fucking drill? Do I have it going backwards or something?” She looked at the side of the drill and confirmed that she did not have it going backwards. She muttered some curses under her breath and went off to get a new drill bit.
This time she put everything she had into it. She got this scary looking bifurcated tempered steel drill bit. She said she usually used it for drilling bone, and that if it could cut bone, there was no way it couldn’t cut my fucking bitch-ass fingernails. My dad furrowed his eyebrows at me. This was certainly a vocal surgeon.
She turned the drill on full power and pushed against my fingernail. I cried out in pain at the immense pressure she was using. She kept on pressing, and I tried to remember that she knew what she was doing and that my pain would be over soon.
Sparks started flying off of the drill bit and a curious expression crossed the surgeon’s face. It didn’t dissuade her, though. She pushed even harder. After a minute or so, the sparks stopped flying. My fingernail was still throbbing. But there was a tiny circular scratch in the middle, where the drill bit was. The surgeon inspected the drill bit. Where before there were 2 sharp pointed extensions, now the edge of the bit looked round.
“What in the fucking fuck is up with this shitty ass good for fucking hell knows son of a bitch soft ass fucking drill bit?? LEONARD! Get the fuck in here you sex starved ugly as fuck oink boinker and get your sorry saggy fat ass in the operating room and get me a fucking drill bit that fucking works you limp dicked people pleasing pansy!!”
My dad looked like he might pass out.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the surgeon said to me with a much nicer tone of voice, “I’m not sure what’s wrong with your fingernails but I’m really interested in figuring it out, especially since they just ruined this $300 medical drill bit. The good news is we were able to make a little indentation in your fingernail, so maybe with a better drill bit we can make some more progress.”
The pain was getting worse by the second and tears were starting to drip down my face, so the surgeon injected some local anesthetic into my fingertip. Boy, did that sting, but it dulled the pain of the hematoma, at least for now, while the surgeon helped Leonard search for a better drill bit.
“Do you have any idea what might be causing this… abnormality?” my dad asked. “Any changes in diet, maybe?”
“I really have no idea,” I said. “I don’t think there have been any changes recently. Wait a sec… wait, what is that… what the hell??”
I stared at my fingernails in utter shock and horror. They were growing. They’re always growing, yes, but I could see them growing if I looked very carefully. The table had grooves on it from the wood and I watched every single one of my fingernails go from one groove, to the next, to the next. I shouted for the surgeon and then passed out.
I woke up the next morning in a hospital bed. My fingernails were all bright green, including the one with the hematoma — the green had obscured the purple somehow. There were 6 doctors standing around me. My fingernails extended about a centimeter past my fingertips and they just kept on growing. They looked thicker than usual too. I gently scratched the metal grab bar on the right side of my bed. When I pulled my finger away I saw the deep scratch I had made in it.
The pain was terrible. I looked up and saw a bag of medicine dripping down through a tube and into my left arm. Painkillers, I assumed, because I felt slightly dull in my head. I asked one of the doctors if I could try to use my phone and he said it wouldn’t do my any harm, so I decided to type all of this out. I have no idea what’s going to happen to me now but when 6 doctors are standing around you, stumped, it’s not a good sign.
Maybe they’ll try to remove my fingernails altogether. Maybe they have stronger tools that they could use. But then what if they grow back with a vengence? My fingernails have grown at least a centimeter in the past 4 days. If it’s this hard to file, clip, and drill through them, I don’t know what the hell I’ll be able to do about it.
I can’t eat, because any pressure on my fingernails causes the hematoma to flare up and it’s really hard to pick up food without using your fingernails when your fingernails are so damn long.
I’m scared to go to the bathroom, for the sake of my nails and my… apparatus.
I can barely type this out on my phone right now.
Maybe to these doctors I’m a medical marvel, but my life is looking far from marvelous right now.
Wish me luck. And the next time you use your fingernails, remember how lucky you are that they’re only a 2 on the Mohs scale.