Monday, July 11, 2011

Lesson #51: Sometimes you're the lion, Sometimes you're the mouse.

Warning: The following post is fairly graphic and disgusting.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to have a lipoma removed from my back. Earlier in the month, my husband and I had tried a home remedy that lead to infection. The tumor was exactly underneath the strap of my bra, which created an extremely painful situation and required me to go to the doctor to "fix" what we had started.

At the doctor's office, I learned that a) a lipoma is a tumor that simply needs to be removed (as in, I can't just hydrogen peroxide my way out of it), and b) I should have come in to see the doctor a long time ago (as in 8 years ago when I first noticed the lump).

So a couple of weekends ago, before the 4th of July holiday, I had out-patient surgery. I was taped up, given an appointment to the after-hours clinic to have bandage changes every day, and sent on my way. The clinic suggested my husband come along so the nurses could show him how to change my bandages and that way we didn't need to drive the 3-hour round trip to the clinic every day.

My poor husband then spent every evening watching me down a few shots of whisky and whimper and cry for hours leading up to the bandage-changing. He would lay me down on the bed, remove the bandage and gauze packing, flush the wound with water, remove the remaining chunks of lipoma that would float to the top, then repack the wound, all while I screamed and bawled and bit a pillow. After the bandage-changing, Hubby would have himself a few shots of whisky.

We carried on like this for days.

Finally last Friday, I went back to the clinic. I decided that the clinic needed to deal with this wound from now on. I had serious concerns that the bandage-changing was ruining my marriage. Hubby was irritated with me, frustrated with the process, and had become a very reluctant nurse. I was irritated that Hubby had reneged on his former enthusiasm to help, though I secretly understood why, and I had run out of pain medication.

On Sunday, the clinic nurse informed me that she thought the wound had healed enough it no longer needed packing. I about jumped for joy.

Until I got home and saw Hubby sprawled out on the floor, close to weeping. He'd slipped a disc in his back while working out and was effectively crippled. He whimpered for me to help him.

I handed him my bottle of whisky and pain pills.

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