Knot’s Landing

June 21, 2009 at 3:42 AM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  Another in my on-going series about my skin conditions–
 
  I have this thing on my back, this *knot*.  It’s been there for years and years.  My ex-wife used to derive great pleasure from fiddling with it.  Squeezing it, pushing it, popping it open and draining it.  It was a hobby of hers.
  Fast forward to a few years later, and Detroit has chosen not to take up gardening on my back.
  Lately, a few people have begun to notice this bump in the middle of my back.  "What’s that?" Bunny would say, poking it.  Honestly, if I was pregnant, or had a hand growing on my face (each of which would be similarly odd) would you do the same thing?
  Then it got a little tender, like the night.  I remember that the doctor just kind of glanced at it a few years ago and declared it to be a fatty tumor.  Either that, or he was calling me fat and telling me I had cancer.  But since it started feeling tender–and before this, I couldna feel it–I decided to do something about it, so I made an appointment.  For Tuesday.

  Tuesday I goes and I sees the doctor.  But first, I had to pass through the outer-office gauntlet.  First I sign in, then give them my new insurance card, and my Benny card to pay the co-pay.  But wait, there’s more.  I have to fill out this new patient information.
  "I’ve been here before.  Many times."
  "We don’t have your file."
  I actually did tell her, "This is a tremendous pain in the ass."
  I fill it out in the loosest sense of the word, leaving much undone and several questions unanswered.  It asked what form of birth control I was using.  Well, I figure age has lowered my sperm count, plus Detroit has been spayed.  I wrote down "Wishful thinking."
  We do keep trying.
  I returned it to the receptionist, and as I did there was a woman who had the air of "office manager" about her.  She gave my forms a perfunctory glance, and pointed to an empty box near the top, and tells her, "We need that."
  So then she tells me, "We need your social security number."
  First of all, why didn’t she ask me herself?  Is she–The only thing I can think of, based on her next comment, is that she may think she’s invisible and that no one can hear her.  Like she has some type of mental disorder where she thinks she is a ghost or something like that, and no one except certain people can communicate with her.  I think there is a foundation and a telethon for that.
  But my point is, with identity theft rampant in our society, I am ultra-aware of the information I give out.  I said immediately, "Yeah, I’m not giving that out."
  The invisible office manager said to the receptionist, "That’s okay, we can get it off the–"  something or other, I didn’t hear.  But why would you say that right in front of me?  Honestly?  And if she thought she was going to get it from any thing in the past I may have filled out, I have news for her.  I’ve been doing this for years.
  Soon, I get into a room, and after the assistants weigh me and take my blood pressure, the doctor comes in.  Actually the nurse, or nurse-practitioner.  The head nurse, as you could plainly tell by the dirt on her knees.  Her name is Robin.  Tall, blond, and pretty.  I like her.  She came in and said, "You’ve been here; I remember you.  I know Bryan.  I wonder why they had you fill out new information?"
  I showed her the thing, and then the knot on my back.  Let me tell you, she was impressed.  "Pull your pants back up," she said.  She looked at it, and said, "Yeah, we need to drain that."  I was thinking several things, like *too bad I still didn’t have my pants down*. 
  She had me lay face down on the table, and they numbed my back up while we talked.  She said fatty tumor was a pretty generic term; in actuality it looked like a cyst.  After she opened it up, she said it was cyst, a cyst on a sweat gland.  They drained it.
  It was liking popping a giant zit on my back.  Her assistant really applied the pressure.  I kept expecting to feel an elbow in my back.  Finally, they were done.  They removed all the pus, and then the actual sac so that it wouldn’t fill up again.  They filled the hole in my back with gauze and put a dressing on it, and gave me a script for a mild antibiotic, just in case.
  I asked her some questions afterward, and we decided to set up for a physical, which I will have in July.  In the meantime, I come back tomorrow to have them redress the wound.  Basically, I just had surgery.

Wednesday

  I goes and sees the doctor again, because the wound was deep and because the nurse wanted to show the doctor so he could laugh at me too.  Nurse Robin is cute, but I think 20 bucks for the copay is a little steep for seeing her when I’m not getting a lap dance or anything.  Hell, she even keeps her pasties on.
  After Robin pulls all the tape and some of the hair off my back, the Good Doctor comes in and has a look.  He pokes and prods, and pulls the gauze strip out of my back.  Although I can’t see it, in my mind’s eye I visualize something similar to pulling a tapeworm or an alien out of my body.  Then HE proceeds to lean on my back and put the pressure on, trying to squeeze more out.  I felt like yelling, in a Scottish accent:  "I’m giv’ner all she’s got, Capn!  She’ll nah take n’more o’ this!"
  While he’s working on it, Robin is assisting.  To take my mind off the pain, I crack wise with some jokes.  Robin thinks I’m funny–obviously, she wants me.
  They cleans me out, cleans me up, and repacks me, and puts some new gauze on the opening.  "Come back again tomorrow."  I am dubious, but it would be my third date with Robin, so technically she is obligated to put out.
  Wednesday night I work at Domino’s, and I’m still a little–you know, it doesn’t hurt, not really.  But I am immensely uncomfortable.  On the scale it would look something like this:
  Pain:  1.5  (on a scale of 1-10)
  Discomfort:  21 (on a scale of 4-23)
  Irritability:  telemarketer call (on a scale of splinter to denied sex)
 
  The pain scale is self-explanatory.  For discomfort, it starts at 4 because 1-3 are a given that everyone experiences all the time anyway.  For irritability, telemarketer call is above explaining something obvious to an idiot, but below not being able to find the remote.

Thursday

  I went in again Thursday afternoon.  I told Robin "We have to stop meeting like this–" as she throws me down on the exam table and mounts me, and proceeds to extract the gauze from the hole in my back.  I don’t think she understands "reverse cowgirl."  The wound is getting better, but it feels more and more tender every day.  Perhaps it’s from them taking turns digging their knees into my back for leverage while the squeeze the shit out of it.  She says it is taking less gauze–meaning it’s not the gaping hole it was before.  That’s good news, although I have always wanted a pouch like a marsupial. However, this was on my back where I couldn’t reach very well–not so handy for car keys.
  With all the surgeries and alterations people get–tattoos, piercings, teeth filed, cosmetic surgery, et cetera–you’d think someone would have thought of this.  I mean a pouch, like on your belly, or on your side, that would totally close up with Velcro or something.  Inside could be lined with something organic, like leather–or maybe your own skin.  This way you could go to the nude beach and still have your room key on you.
  Robin and I made arrangements for a clandestine meeting early the next morning.  I’m getting charged 20 bucks each time–I’d say I’ve earned some cuddling, at least.  What a tease.

Friday

  Bright and early at 7 am I arrive at the doctor’s office.  For once, my bandages managed to stay on.  Wednesday it was loose, and Thursday it was completely off.  But just overnight, I managed to keep it on.  Robin took care of it, and the Doctor came and looked at it after they squeezed the living piss out of me, decided not to pack gauze in it this time.  They keep telling me it’s healing up nicely, but I never know if that’s the truth or smoke blown up my skirt.  However, not packing it with gauze is a big step.
  Remind me, I need some antibiotic ointment, like neosporin or something.  I don’t even know if we have any.  Oh, and I need to pick up my script still, for the antibiotics.  Do I honestly need them?  I really don’t know.  In about 12 minutes, I was in there and outta there, so that qualifies as a quickie. 
  And since she didn’t have me make another appointment–I guess this was goodbye, too.  Our love affair was brief and painful, and altogether hard to comprehend.  I’ll never forget her,  And she may or may not remember me.  That’s the way I want it.

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