not for the squeamish
I like to think that I’m a relatively grown-up person who can handle things with a certain level of dignity.
Maybe for the most part, I do. But not last night. Not at all.
I bought new shoes over the weekend. New Vans. I like Vans because they make me want to go out and skate. I haven’t touched my board in years, but something about the padding hitting my instep just makes me want to railslide. Anyway, I’m wearing these new shoes and they immediately give me two huge blisters on both of my heels.
The blister on my left heel is the size of a quarter.
I must have read somewhere a long time ago that if your blister is bigger than a nickel you should pop it. I asked Eric if he knew the rhyme. I believe he responded with something as sympathetic as, “What the hell does change have to do with it? What? If it’s a dime you might be fine? Pop the penny; you don’t want any?”
I swear I heard something about that. That once it gets to be a certain size, the blister isn’t going to go down by itself. In any event, I left both of them alone Sunday night, and yesterday I was in so much pain that I was walking around work in just my socks.
When I was still in pain last night I decided to do something about it. “What about your money rhyme?” Eric asked.
I went and got a pin, a lighter, a paper towel and band-aids. Eric watched with a fascinating grin.
“What?” I grumbled.
“I… I just… that’s quite a setup you got there, Doctor.”
“My dad taught me how to do this.”
“Or you could just rip off the blister.”
“NO! Then you’ve got raw skin just sitting there all hurting for days. No. This releases the pressure and gets all of that water and stuff out of there and lets it heal. You would just rip it off, wouldn’t you?”
I lit the needle.
“Oh, that’s hot.”
Eric started laughing. “This is going to be fun.”
“You laugh at my pain. That makes me feel so loved.”
I don’t know exactly what happened right there. But if you’re even slightly squeamish, or if you’ve just eaten or something, you might not want to read the next sentence. As I put the needle to the edge of the blister a steady stream of pus shot right out of the blister. Into my eye.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I…. HATE MYSELF.
Clear fluid shot like, three feet in the air to hit me in the eye.
I squealed and shouted about my vision and how disgusting everything is when Eric pretty much gave up on me.
Now, here’s the thing. Eric doesn’t believe that people actually get hurt, injured, or sick. Last week he had a cold for three days, and he blamed his cough and sneezing on me, the sheets, and the cats. Not that he could possibly be sick. If you’re in pain, you’re being a baby. If you’re limping, you’re asking for attention. There is no such thing as pain. No one is ill unless they want to be.
I, of course, know this is bullshit, but I try and keep my whining away from him. After all, that’s why I have this journal.
But last night I couldn’t stop squealing. I had out-grossed myself out. I had the pus eye.
“Why do things always end up in your eye?”
“It’s funnier that way. Somehow my eye knows that. It’s not as funny to get it in my ear. Plus this head-jerk motion is kinda funny.”
I could never be a doctor. As I continued to pop the blister, each time the fluid would shoot up from the pressure I’d squeal and drop things onto the ground. I’d wiggle and squirm and generally get mortified by what’s actually a little water and my heel.
I don’t care, man. In my eye! My eye! Don’t look at me! I’m hideous!
Eric continued to laugh at me until I reminded him that I saw him through some pretty nasty illnesses and skin afflictions as well. He went to bed and I did the wiggly-dance around the living room. I washed my face six times. I put in drop after drop of Visine. I took three showers. I slid down the back wall of the shower and sat in a huddled ball, letting the stream of water hit my face, wishing that the water could be hotter, because I was so cold– so very, very cold.
And today, yes, my eye is a little red, and a little sore. The problem is I don’t know if it’s from me rubbing and scrubbing the hell out of it, or if I actually did damage by getting blister juice in my eye.
And it’s stupid that I’m having to ask myself that on a Tuesday morning. What’s wrong with me? Seriously! Why can’t I just have a blister and then I put a band-aid on it and I’m done? No, I’ve got to get this thing the size of a Susan B. Anthony and then when I put a needle up to it I get a steady stream of heel sauce right in my damn retina.
No, come on, what is wrong with me?