Skip to main content

On Being Married

 I have a large abscess on my back. I'm not sure why it's there, but I've decided not to feel ashamed by it, and it's certainly been a source of entertainment these past few days.

My doctor gasped when she saw it, and then she began to use particularly disgusting words, and I've made a hobby of cataloging the grossest language: "discharge from the growth," "the meat of the growth," "draining the pus," "when the infection begins to weep...."

My doctor also suggested that I see an ENT, regarding earwax buildup.

"You need a specialist for that?" said my husband. "Ask the doctor if you should call a proctologist every time you have to wipe your ass...."

I picked up baby oil--as an earwax home-remedy--and my husband grew confused. "You're going to use that on the boil?" he asked. And I explained that I had moved on to Problem Number Two -- the ear problem.

"You use a pipet and drop the oil in your ear, and the oil softens the wax...for irrigation..."

My husband smiled. "Now you're just trying to turn me on."

I've been grateful to Marc through all of this--for his sense of humor. He has described the various gauze pads I've used as if they were works of modern art. ("Saturday was *really* striking....") Also, Marc tried the baby-oil trick with me, in solidarity--despite some skepticism. This made the process slightly less bizarre.

I, personally, feel my hearing has improved--and my boil is rounding a corner. I've learned to avoid Q-tips and embrace the pipet. I've learned this: If the blood and discharge on your back actually acts as a kind of cement, and the cement glues the gauze pad to your flesh, you should just hop in the shower. The pad might fall off. You don't have to envision horror scenarios in which two-thirds of your skin gets forcibly peeled off. At least: Not yet.

Day after day, I've felt awe on this journey.

Comments

  1. A boil should not have a corner. Perhaps you should see a prescribing mathematician?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanks! The boil is.... "rounding a bend" -- !!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...