Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Four to Six More Weeks.

I've been referred to the hospital's Wound Care Center; they're taking over from the Urology staff who were packing/repacking my slowly-healing belly.

It's not a crisis; there's no out-of-control infection or any other excitement. Just my big Buddha belly. A deep fat layer slows the healing process.

The Wound Care folks started in on me yesterday, taking pictures and using a long swab to map out the incision site, poking & prodding. I'm getting used to that--but these new nurses are using the same "When you do this yourself..." wind-up as the Urology people.


I can sit through "Trauma: Life in the ER" and similar shows with no problem. I've seen blood flowing out of a guy, taking his life with it. I've seen a disarticulated knee joint, with the top of the man's tibia shining white and clean in the midst of the torn hamburger of the rest of his leg. I've seen bikers with both femurs snapped like matchsticks, their lower legs at odd angles. An old woman with emphysema who lit a cigarette, then tried to smoke with her oxygen mask. I was fascinated by all of it, watching the ER teams put these people back together, watching the montage of their recoveries. One of the most amazing accomplishments of humanity.

I can watch it on TV. I can't see me poking gauze into this hole in my belly. It's got to be done, whether I do it or not; the Wound Care folks say 4 to 6 weeks more, less if I load up on protein.

Talking myself into it isn't going to be that easy...I'm such a chickenshit.

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