Staph Meeting

WARNING: This blog contains graphic imagery. Viewer discretion is advised.

The human body is a very amazing thing. Mysterious. Ever intricate. Under endless siege from things that would do us harm. What kinds of things, you ask? Oh, I don't know. Things liiiiiike....FUCKING STAPH INFECTIONS. What's a staph infection? Excellent question. This is how it began, but even then, let me back things up.

Last Thursday, I noticed a soreness on my upper thigh. I didn't think too much about it. I hurt all over anymore. I went about my daily routine - tending Err-Bear, getting dressed for work, going through the museum motions, etc. - but by the end of the night, I noticed my thigh felt really, Really sore. 

Let me repeat this for those who have not heard me say:

I don't look at myself naked. Ever. Even before the pregnancy pounded my formerly feminine shorelines. In fact, if I ever DID look at myself naked, it was to mutter curses in the hopes that my self-loathing would inspire change. No such luck ever occurred.

I got there around midnight and was encouraged to see not many people in the waiting area. It meant they'd get to me sooner rather than later, I thought. Even with something so foolish as a spider bite thing. And believe me, the longer I sat there, the more foolish I felt. People with real problems came and went, each looking and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I was still dressed in my uniform. I looked like a sleepy geek. After about an hour, they finally called me back and set me up in a room. The nurse fellow gave me a warm blanket and a gown, telling me to strip down and enjoy television while I waited. Nice guy, I thought as I got into the gown. I laid down and put the blanket over me, immediately feeling how warm it really was. Super nice guy. He'd had it in a warmer. I laid there a while before the doctor showed up. He was as nice as the nurse was. Soft spoken but matter-of-fact. Gentle but down to business. He took one look at my leg and said, "Ooooh yeah, that's infected". He left for a few minutes and came back with two nurses and a tray full of instruments.

"Okay, Mrs. Ortega, we recommend that you don't look and hold onto the rail."

Uhh...I'm good with the not looking part but is the rail necessary?

"We really recommend you grab onto the rail. We need you to remain very still."

Okay..........

He pulled out a giant ass needle and proceeded to poke that sumbitch right through the angry mountaintop. FUUUUUUCK that hurt. He filled it with something to numb the area, but the filling itself felt 10 times more painful than, oh, I don't know, having a kid. I kept my breathing steady and gripped the rail just like he said. Before too long the anesthetic kicked in and I was able to breathe a little bit. He went back into the leg and I felt a geyser of liquid shoot up from the infected mound. A combination of blood, pus, and anesthetic, the doctor said. He poked around and seemed encouraged by what he found or didn't find. He wouldn't have to scoop it out, he said. I could still wear a bikini without having to explain an embarrassing, unsightly scooping scar. ...no, he didn't say that.  

Long, disgusting story short: My leg is doing much better. The pink, not-really-bubblegum-but-mom-said-it-was-so-it-is antibiotic and topical cream have worked wonders and now, 7 days later, I'm very much on the mend. I don't have a recent photo for you, but I'm sure you've had about all you cared to take of those... :) 

I was going to write more, but I'm getting sleepy. 

Until next time.