Rumors of my death...
Just a quick thank you to everyone who wished me well (I'm going to be behind on replies, but I promise to get to everyone), and I am essentially fine. I am however a tad stressed over the idea the giant gaping hole in my back might heal up into... a giant gaping hole. It seems I can't even scar properly. (Or maybe the no-insurance plan just doesn't cover stitches.)
And antibiotics always make me depressed. (Or maybe needing antibiotics always makes me depressed.)
Haven't taken the Hydrocodone yet, half because the pain hasn't seemed to warrant it, half because the very prospect of them scares me shitless.
My little sister, incapable of given advanced notice, blazed through town. But by the time she was done having dinner with "The Talent" (no word on if The Dedication, The Resources or The Inclination were also present) I was already strung out from the day. So, I'll see her... um... in another few years? (Maybe I'll drop her an email. It can keep all my other unanswered emails company.)
Edit: Felt a bit more like writing. Hopfully this is more entertaining.
"We don't want this to come off." The nurse told me as she layered yet another strip of tape over the gauze on my back, covering the yet more gauze that was in my back.
I ask her about showers, she runs off to ask the doctor. Answer: No showers for me. Oh joy.
In all the confusion, it's not until I get home that I realize no one mentioned how often I should change the bandage, or how I should go about doing it.
So I call up. Am I suppose to change this thing? The amount of tape seems inimical to that end.
"Well, I guess you can take it off if you're going to shower or something. But you'll have to cover it back up."
But I'm not supposed to shower, so that means no, right?
The idea of a bandage I'm not suppose to change daily boggles my mind but I faithfully leave it alone, adding the odd strip of tap when it starts coming up.
A few days later, the follow-up call. How am I doing, do I have any questions?
Well, just one.
"Oh, you're suppose to change that every day."
Where the fuck where you yesterday? Gah!
All set to do a drastic changing of the bandage when it hits me, who's to say the callback girl is from the same location? Or even that she understood the situation?
Calling back would be paranoid.
Calling back would be obsessive.
I call back.
"Actually, we'd prefer you don't change the bandage, as you might disturb the gauze."
That's it, I'm not undergoing another medical procedure until I've been to medical school for eight years, and I know whether or not I need to change the bandage! And for that matter, I'm performing the operation myself---Arnaud style.
Today I got the packing out. We went a tad too early, I think, to get the doctor I had last time, who was not altogether unpleasant. (Also, because I was on antibiotics, I was even more of a vampire then usual. The sun! It buuuuurns!)
I had worn a backless halter so that the doctor could have complete access to my back. (I don't often do this on the second date, but I made the exception.) So of course the nurse insists I need to get into the paper shirt.
? Not wanting to turn into an episode of Seinfield, I mention only once that my back is pretty accessible currently, then I acquiesce.
"You can keep your bra on."
Oh, what wonderful news. Too bad I'm not wearing one. How, exactly, does on wear a backless shirt and also a bra?
Besides, I think I left it at lickingbeads house. ;)
In retrospects, I'm not entirely sure how to take the fact that a male nurse was unable to tell I wasn't wearing a bra. Huh.
My doctor, a man this time (ironically the time they ask me to take off my shirt) gave me a perfunctory handshake that assured he didn't give a damn about me and I was infact wasting his time.
"Is this the bandage we applied?"
He probably got the wrong idea when I told him I had just applied more tape. 90% of that tape was applied by actual medical personnel.
Perhaps to punish me for my (perceived) transgressions involving tape, he ripped the bandage off in that way it is never better to do. No matter what anyone tells you, faster just leaves welt marks.
After ripping the gauze off my back, he unceremoniously ripped the gauze out of my back.
My shirt came in handy as something to bite down on.
Oh, and that searing pain was him deciding, also without any advanced warning, to attempt to squeeze a little more grossness out of the situation.
I think I might take that Hydrocodone after all.
But good news, no more packing. (Unless it's packing for that vacation I am long overdue.) And as he tapes a much smaller bit of gauze much more loosely onto my back, I confirm that yes, this time I get to change it daily, until the incision stops draining.
"Really, it's only to keep your clothes clean."
? And here I thought it was to keep the wound sterile. But what do I know, I'm the girl wearing a paper shirt.
He recommended, while showering, letter water run into the cut and then rinse out.
I'm torn between horror at the very prospect of how painful that is likely to be, and impressed that this man went to medical school and is giving me the "run it under the tap" advice.
He informed me I didn't need to check out at the desk, then told me to put my shirt on and left.
I don't think he'll call.
The expert bandaging job of Dr. Callous gaped to such a degree that my boyfriend, while driving me home, saw my new beauty mark for the first time. He was thoroughly horrified, both by its appearance and by the idea I would not be getting stitches. Part of me wants to see it, but most of my has been dissuaded so far.
For the curious, he describes it as "like an empty eye socket."
Before resigning myself to being able to peer at people from the back of my shoulder, I've put some hope into the idea that (after it stops draining) I might be able to make due with butterfly bandages. Or steri-strips might work.
Then again, it seems I don't know as much about bandages as I thought I did.
And antibiotics always make me depressed. (Or maybe needing antibiotics always makes me depressed.)
Haven't taken the Hydrocodone yet, half because the pain hasn't seemed to warrant it, half because the very prospect of them scares me shitless.
My little sister, incapable of given advanced notice, blazed through town. But by the time she was done having dinner with "The Talent" (no word on if The Dedication, The Resources or The Inclination were also present) I was already strung out from the day. So, I'll see her... um... in another few years? (Maybe I'll drop her an email. It can keep all my other unanswered emails company.)
Edit: Felt a bit more like writing. Hopfully this is more entertaining.
"We don't want this to come off." The nurse told me as she layered yet another strip of tape over the gauze on my back, covering the yet more gauze that was in my back.
I ask her about showers, she runs off to ask the doctor. Answer: No showers for me. Oh joy.
In all the confusion, it's not until I get home that I realize no one mentioned how often I should change the bandage, or how I should go about doing it.
So I call up. Am I suppose to change this thing? The amount of tape seems inimical to that end.
"Well, I guess you can take it off if you're going to shower or something. But you'll have to cover it back up."
But I'm not supposed to shower, so that means no, right?
The idea of a bandage I'm not suppose to change daily boggles my mind but I faithfully leave it alone, adding the odd strip of tap when it starts coming up.
A few days later, the follow-up call. How am I doing, do I have any questions?
Well, just one.
"Oh, you're suppose to change that every day."
Where the fuck where you yesterday? Gah!
All set to do a drastic changing of the bandage when it hits me, who's to say the callback girl is from the same location? Or even that she understood the situation?
Calling back would be paranoid.
Calling back would be obsessive.
I call back.
"Actually, we'd prefer you don't change the bandage, as you might disturb the gauze."
That's it, I'm not undergoing another medical procedure until I've been to medical school for eight years, and I know whether or not I need to change the bandage! And for that matter, I'm performing the operation myself---Arnaud style.
Today I got the packing out. We went a tad too early, I think, to get the doctor I had last time, who was not altogether unpleasant. (Also, because I was on antibiotics, I was even more of a vampire then usual. The sun! It buuuuurns!)
I had worn a backless halter so that the doctor could have complete access to my back. (I don't often do this on the second date, but I made the exception.) So of course the nurse insists I need to get into the paper shirt.
? Not wanting to turn into an episode of Seinfield, I mention only once that my back is pretty accessible currently, then I acquiesce.
"You can keep your bra on."
Oh, what wonderful news. Too bad I'm not wearing one. How, exactly, does on wear a backless shirt and also a bra?
Besides, I think I left it at lickingbeads house. ;)
In retrospects, I'm not entirely sure how to take the fact that a male nurse was unable to tell I wasn't wearing a bra. Huh.
My doctor, a man this time (ironically the time they ask me to take off my shirt) gave me a perfunctory handshake that assured he didn't give a damn about me and I was infact wasting his time.
"Is this the bandage we applied?"
He probably got the wrong idea when I told him I had just applied more tape. 90% of that tape was applied by actual medical personnel.
Perhaps to punish me for my (perceived) transgressions involving tape, he ripped the bandage off in that way it is never better to do. No matter what anyone tells you, faster just leaves welt marks.
After ripping the gauze off my back, he unceremoniously ripped the gauze out of my back.
My shirt came in handy as something to bite down on.
Oh, and that searing pain was him deciding, also without any advanced warning, to attempt to squeeze a little more grossness out of the situation.
I think I might take that Hydrocodone after all.
But good news, no more packing. (Unless it's packing for that vacation I am long overdue.) And as he tapes a much smaller bit of gauze much more loosely onto my back, I confirm that yes, this time I get to change it daily, until the incision stops draining.
"Really, it's only to keep your clothes clean."
? And here I thought it was to keep the wound sterile. But what do I know, I'm the girl wearing a paper shirt.
He recommended, while showering, letter water run into the cut and then rinse out.
I'm torn between horror at the very prospect of how painful that is likely to be, and impressed that this man went to medical school and is giving me the "run it under the tap" advice.
He informed me I didn't need to check out at the desk, then told me to put my shirt on and left.
I don't think he'll call.
The expert bandaging job of Dr. Callous gaped to such a degree that my boyfriend, while driving me home, saw my new beauty mark for the first time. He was thoroughly horrified, both by its appearance and by the idea I would not be getting stitches. Part of me wants to see it, but most of my has been dissuaded so far.
For the curious, he describes it as "like an empty eye socket."
Before resigning myself to being able to peer at people from the back of my shoulder, I've put some hope into the idea that (after it stops draining) I might be able to make due with butterfly bandages. Or steri-strips might work.
Then again, it seems I don't know as much about bandages as I thought I did.