Grows roses, relieves constipation, kills evil

That title reflects the three major achievements of epsom salts. I'm adding it to my list of lesser-known miracles of Jesus, right next to synthetic motor oil.

Here's how the toe scenario went down: I booked a same day appointment at the tiny, tiny town's military clinic, which turned out to be about the size of your average preschool (my own personal prejudice: buildings where you can potentially be cut or burned by strangers should be at least the size of a good grocery store, giving you ample running room in case you change your mind about the procedure), and limped in to see my new Primary Care Provider.

At all the military hospitals I've been to so far, you must first brave a gauntlet of young, virile enlisted men, rosy-cheeked innocents who are the very picture of health, and with whom you must EXPLICITLY discuss the details of your ailment. In my case, the young men were idle and bored, and, detecting my sky-rocketing anxiety, insisted that I prop my foot on the desk so that they could tease me about being out of anesthesia and how my toenail definitely needed to be "yanked." Maybe it was the color draining from my face, or the appraising way I gauged the distance to my car through the exit door, but they switched gears after a minute or two and assured me there were ample supplies of drugs in the building.

As it happened, God turned his broad sunny face on me and smiled-- my new doctor, all humorless West Texas twang and fierce competence (i.e. the polar opposite of my previous doctor), granted the toenail a reprieve on the grounds that partially removing it would only cause further wonky regrowth (the same wonky regrowth that got me into this situation in the first place), and I'd be in the same predicament six months from now. Instead, I was prescribed massive doses of an antibiotic and what the husband calls Vitamin M, as in Motrin, the military's magic cure-all, and finally, advised to soak my toe in epsom salts twice daily.

I've read several hilarious accounts of the tendency of families to ascribe mythic powers of restorative healing to particular products, far beyond the scope of what's promised on the label. My dad worships at the altar of Desitin, a diaper rash cream. My husband's grandmother recommends alka seltzer for ailments clearly unrelated to the stomach or digestive tract in any way. Chris Rock has a great bit about generic Robitussin, and the grandfather in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" swoons for Windex.

The United States military believes in Motrin, and I now take an oath of fealty to epsom salts. My toe is shockingly close to normal. Bedsheets can wisp over the top of it without producing searing pain, the grotesque bouquet of colors it was sporting has all but faded completely, and the cartoonish swelling and throbbing have greatly lessened. Plus, according to the helpful pharmascist at the grocery store, epsom salts help grow healthy rose bushes. (She thought that's why I was asking for them, and looked slightly embarrassed and disappointed when I said, "No, I just have a nasty toe to soak.") Further perusal of the product label revealed that the wonders of epsom salts go even further-- they're also a powerful laxative!

So the next time I find myself internally backed up and limping around on an infected toe AND needing to spruce up my garden, I'll rest assured that epsom salts have me covered.