Not a Great Plan
I was in my junior year of high school. I woke up at 6 AM with a bladder ready to burst. The night before I got gone out of my mind. The thing was, my bedroom was upstairs and across the house from the only working bathroom. I knew I wouldn’t make it in time, and on top of that, a journey of that length would make it impossible for me to fall back asleep.
But my stupid half-asleep teenage self had a plan. The window in my room led out to a roof I could pee off of, so in my jelly-brained haze, I ran to the window. However, when I was climbing out, I slammed my foot into the wall. It hurt like mad, but all I could think about was peeing. I did what I had to do. The sweet relief quickly drowned the pain out.
I came back inside and promptly went to bed. I didn’t even think to look at my foot, but later when I woke up again, I realized that it had bled all night and my big toenail was sorta half disconnected. I could pull it off the bed of my toe a little bit, but it couldn’t fully disconnect yet. It was like a wiggly tooth.
Since I couldn’t pull it off, I hoped it would reattach. For a while, I bandaged it every day hoping that would give it time to heal. At night when I would check on it, it would always pull slightly farther off the toe, but still never quite enough. After a few agonizing months, I stopped using the bandage. It was clear it wasn’t going to reattach.
One fateful day I was at the beach, running barefoot through some wet sand. My legs bore deep into it, sometimes sinking at least eight or so inches. At some point or another, while enjoying the sun, the toenail had finally decided to part ways with my foot and me.
I noticed after coming back to the dry beach that it was gone. Part of me felt an overwhelming relief, but part of me wondered if it would even grow back. Sure enough, it took a year but it did. Story credit: Reddit/therealsquash