My hands were freckled with warts when I was 10 years old. My older but wiser siblings informed me I had contracted them from catching and handling the toads that populated the cattail marsh across from our house. I picked at my warts incessantly, to the point that my mother finally took me to see Dr. Wurm, who started by burning off one and, on the next visit, another with what looked like a soldering iron. It was a painful experience that left scars that are visible today and an indelible memory of the smoke and smell when the warts evaporated. That was enough for me. I decided to do my own research.
I had tried eradicating the warts by putting milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) sap on them. Like toads, and advice from my siblings, milkweed was easy to obtain. As it turns out, the plant genus Asclepiases was known for its medicinal properties in many cultures, even being named after the Greek god of healing, Asklepios. Milkweed sap is toxic to humans and animals, in the right dosage, but it didn’t heal my warts. I had also cut a potato in half, rubbed my warts with the juice of the potato, and buried that half of the potato in our backyard. Popular wisdom, from my siblings, said that when the potato rotted away, my warts would disappear with it. My patience expired waiting for that potato to rot. I decided I had to take matters into my own hands.
After so many years of familiarity, I had come to know my warts well. On my left index finger, very close to the cuticle, was the largest and most unsightly wart. I perceived it to be my first wart; I mistook its size as indicative of its age. Of all the warts on my hands, this received the most attention and abuse from me as it was the most visible. Drawing on my Catholic education in science, nature, and reproduction, I theorized that all my warts were the offspring of this one large wart. Like aspen trees, that propagate from suckers that grow underground, my smaller warts were off shoots of this parent wart on my index finger. The obvious consequence of my theory was that if this original wart was eradicated, the others would wither, die, and disappear. I set about to remove the big wart.
Over a number of days, using rubbing alcohol and a sharp jackknife, I tormented that wart, whittling away at it until it was an open wound. Sprinkling some betadine powder on it, I bandaged my finger and went outside to play “moves up” (i.e., scrub baseball). It healed nicely and all smaller warts disappeared. I’ve been free of warts ever since, with only the two cauterized wart scars to show for it. There is no scar where the “mother” wart once resided.
My oldest brother, Bill, decided to put my theory to the test on his warts. My younger brother, Donald, tells the story of Billy’s finger dripping and forming a pool of blood on the terrazzo floor of the church during Father Scalese’s sermon. His surgery was less successful and challenged my nascent theory of wart propagation and eradication. I learned that replication of results is a critical part of the scientific method. My older brother learned that, when it comes to health, personal anecdotes about success are no guarantee that what’s being sold is truly effective.
Warts are caused by a very common HPV virus and, like mine and my brothers did, usually disappear without intervention in 1 to 2 years as the immune system eventually identifies the virus and destroys it. In my case, foolishly tormenting the wart with the knife likely introduced the virus into my bloodstream, mobilizing an all-out assault by the immune system on all the warts. Dermatologists call this “intralesional immunotherapy.”
How much my belief in the “mother wart” theory impacted the outcome is unknown. The power of suggestion can produce a placebo effect that impacts blood flow and immune response. Truth be told, I had a lot less faith in the milkweed and buried potato solutions than I did in the surgical option.
As of today, some 63 years later, I remain wart free.