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...

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...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...