Ode to a Green Lump of Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer's Morning
WARNING!! NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH.
If you are squeamish, stop here. Read no further. Think of white fluffy clouds and ponies as you click the back button on your browser. Really. I mean it.
This isn't so much an ode as it is a lament and a whine. It's not so much green as it is red. It's not so much putty as it is, well, not putty. What it is, however, is a lump, and where it is, coincidently, is in my armpit. This is as close to poetry, Vogon or other, as this gets. Welcome to my world of the last few days.
This is thingy #3 in the last year. I call it a "thingy," because I really don't know what it is. "Lump" implies cancer. "Cyst" implies cyst, which I'm not entirely sure this is. See, the first two never acheived a size that merited attaching a label to them. When they got to a particular size, I decided I'd had enough of them, found a head and did what one does to such things. Doing this was, at once disgusting and mesmerising. More important, though, doing this meant they were gone. This thingy is different. This thingy is a science experiment gone awry. This thingy is freakishly large. I jokingly referred to the first two thingies as "my third nipple." If this one is a nipple, the breasts would be in ZZ cups and attached to a 20 ft. woman. If it gets much larger, I will start a college fund for it. Oh, and have I mentioned it fucking hurts?
Of course, my luck being what it is, this thingy went out of control over a holiday weekend. Sunday night, I knew it was bad. I started considering calling the doctor, which couldn't happen until Tuesday. Monday, the pain started to be noticeable more often, so we swung by Walgreen's to see if we could find something to numb the thingy enough that we could lance it and drain whatever was left after the initial explosion. Something this large can only explode. I know..."Eeew," but I did mention this was not for the squeamish. The best we could do was Lanacaine. In a word, it sucks as a numbing agent. I have a high tolerance for pain, but at that point, even looking at the thingy hurt. I was not going to stick a needle into it, regardless of the eventual relief I'd get, unless it was completely numb.
As soon as I was sure the doctor's office was open on Tuesday, I called. I knew my options would be bleak, because getting a doctor appointment the day after a holiday is as hard as getting Bush to correctly pronounce "nuclear." The best I could get was Thursday morning. This brings us up to date. The thingy is red. The skin around the thingy is red and irritated. The pain is constant, sometimes it's worse than other times, but I always know it's there. It's frustrating. I am counting the hours to my appointment like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. Whatever my doctor does will most likely hurt. A lot. I don't care. I want this thingy gone. I want it gone so badly that the mere thought that my doctor won't do anything proactive (read: take a needle or scalpel to it), nearly brings me to tears. I am seriously scared that she'll tell me the thingy needs to be examined in a lab, and she doesn't do that kind of work. I have a crush on my doctor and think she's completely dreamy, but if she tells me she can't help me, I will reach out, grab her lower lip and tell her -- through clenched teeth -- that she will find someone who will not only help me, but will help me today. Who am I kidding? If she can't help me, I'll break down and cry like Nancy Kerrigan.