I interrupt the regularly-scheduled blog for…..uh, this:
While on the way to the beach recently, Will started picking at a rather benign-looking bo-bo on his thigh. It really was just a run of the mill ingrown hair or something. Then it got angry. Really angry. By the end of the beach trip, there was no doubt in my mind Will had a nice staph infection. How do I know? For some reason, I’ve had several this year. It’s the damnedest thing. I’ve never had a problem and then one day BAM. It shows up. They’re gross and very painful. And like the word “radioactive,” “staph” conjures up nightmares of lost limbs and rotting flesh. In many people’s minds, staph = MRSA just like radioactive = tumors and fallout. Regardless, you don’t mess around with staph. It’s a tenacious little germ, requiring antibiotics topically or orally, depending on the bo-bo.
Anyway, over the course of the next day or so, his leg got worse. It was swollen, quite red, and eventually weeping gross stuff. He finally made a doctor’s appointment for Wednesday afternoon with his GP and even left work early that day as it was just too uncomfortable. His doc made an appointment the next day for a surgeon and sent him home with dire warnings of elevated temperatures and increases in swelling and redness. That was nice. Will was terrified and we were up in the middle of the night making sure he didn’t need an express trip to the ER. I love doctors.
I went with him to the surgeon, as I figured he needed moral support and I didn’t know if he’d be able to drive home, depending on the treatment given. It’s just what a spouse does in a case like that. You either want your significant other or your mom during anything gross and scary. The treatment went pretty much as I figured it would go. They numbed it with a shot of something (ouch) and proceeded to make a small incision through which they drained all the yuck. They had warned us that packing the wound with gauze daily would be necessary. We could do it ourselves or have home health do it. Only with home health, you would be homebound. That’s stupid, especially since we have Stella’s birthday party on Sunday. Ok, no problem. We can do it. We are capable, intelligent people.
Let’s just say their definition of “packing” and ours is a very, very different thing. Once the draining of the wound was done, the doc asked us to watch so we would know what to do. The gauze was stinky (soaked in iodine – I still can’t get that damn smell out of my nose) and very skinny. Think like linguine X 2. The doc proceeded to take the gauze in forceps and cram about a kilometer of the stuff into the incision in Will’s leg. It was unbelievable. With each inch (or foot), I became more and more ill at the thought of having to do this to my husband. He wasn’t real happy, either. When they said “packing,” I figured they meant wadding up some gauze, pressing it on top of the bo-bo, and taping it securely. Not stuffing a duvet which just happens to be my husband’s thigh. It was almost vulgar. His thigh was violated. Absolutely violated.
We left with a prescription for pain pills (thank god), a bottle of the stinky skinny gauze, and his thigh still bulging, only this time with gauze instead of pus. I guess as a mom and wife, this is the kind of normal, gross stuff you have to be prepared to do. Damn being pregnant. This is one of those moments where Will and I both need to do some shots of gin or something. I’m also thinking that it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Will missed his daughter’s party. That’s why god invented video. Maybe home health will get a call today.