He came over and in we went along with one of the many kind nurses to a curtained room where I dropped my trousers so he could change the dressing.
But first, there was the poking. Does this hurt? No? How about this? No? This? Yes! This? Yes!! Which is worse, here or here? Ahhh! They both hurt, a lot! Then, he washed the area. Then he told me he was going to rinse it with an "antibiotic" and it might sting a little. A little? Ow! Ow! Ow!
He is sorry, but he has to. I know. And he has to remove the stent, too.
What?! He said "dressing", not "stent". Great, he's going to be pulling things out of my leg and putting them back in, and something tells me this is not going to be one of those Novocain visits.
Oh no, it is not. After "rinsing out" my abscess, he pulled out the stent. Oh, it's only five seconds. True, the sharp pain lasts five seconds, but the aftershocks remain. (I don't think he understood that analogy; his English is good, but he probably doesn't get much call for the geology vocabulary.) Remember, my wound is inflamed and very tender. It doesn't stop hurting just because you've stopped touching it.
After the removal, there is the reinsertion. Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen. It pinches, in a, "I'm once again tense and screaming into the pillow" sort of way. And then it's over.
He shows me the pus that's leaked into my gauze pads. Cool, huh? I get new gauze and more tape (still no showers for this injured girl) and sent on my way with the directive to return the next day.
However, when I mention that one of my colleagues really wanted to see what it looked like, he was more than willing to take a picture. I should have just told him! He'd be happy to photograph my misery in pus. Who wouldn't?
Monday was much the same, although I must admit that there was less pain. When he poked around the edge of the wound, I did not scream in agony, I just groaned a little. He also skipped the "antibiotic" wash. He did, however, trim some "dead" skin along the edge (or something). I say "dead" because it hurt like a mother and I wondered why he hated me so much. Yes, I said that. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Why do you hate me so much?!?"
He did make me admit that it was less painful than the prior day, but I reminded him that he didn't use the... Stuff there. Ah yes. I could see him struggling for the name of the stinging liquid. "Hydrogen peroxide," I said.
"What? How did I know what that was?"
"Uh, it's standard in every good first-aid kit."
"Oh no. This is a very strong liquid."
Really? Then what do Chinese mother pour over the scrapes of little Chinese children when they trip and and fall and skin their knees?
But it does make me wonder why I call hydrogen peroxide an antiseptic and not an antibiotic. I think I'm going to have to look that up.
But, having impressed him (yet again), I forced him to agree that my wound was the highlight of his day. He was about ready to deny it because he's spent the entire time telling me that my abscess is tiny, boring, and nowhere near traumatic enough to make a surgeon happy. He did realize I was being sarcastic just at the right minute and he had the wherewithal to agree with me.
Smart man.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Beijing, China
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