There were two occasions in my married life- to date- that were very difficult for me to handle.
The first occurred on my wedding night. Kyle hadn't said anything to me all day long; finally, when we got to our honeymoon suite, he confessed that he had a huge boil, and it was killing him. When he showed it to me, I insisted that we head right on down to emerge and have it taken care of. He didn't want to ruin our wedding night. In my mind, remaining in discomfort for the rest of the night would ruin it for him, personally. But, I let him be. (That, and how funny would it have been to see a bride and groom, still in their get up, waltz into emerge at 2 in the morning??!)
Before the gift opening Sunday morning, we did head down to emerge. I went with him into emerge and held his hand while they froze the infected area, then lanced it and squeezed the heck out of it. I nearly passed out. I could not stomach the hideous fluid that was gushing out of the hole in his leg. MY.WORD. I sat down on a chair for a few minutes before I decided that I had better get out of there before I really did pass out- or vomit. Either were very likely to happen in a very short amount of time.
I promised husband that if anything like that ever happened again, I would not accompany him into emerge! I'd wait in the waiting room, but I would go no further. Oi.
Fast forward three years.
He gets another one. And, this one is in a spot that is equally as uncomfortable as the first one. Probably even worse. It got nowhere near as big as the one on our wedding night, but it was obvious he was in pain. He went to see the doctor three times, and he wouldn't do anything for him. The first doctor told him to wait it out. (Until the centre turned white, like a pimple). That advice really ticked him off. Finally, the last time he saw the doctor, Lidocaine (topical or oral solution) was prescribed to him. I applied it once for him, and thankfully it ruptured shortly afterwards.
I promised husband that I would never be able to watch all that gross stuff drain out of his wound; this time there was no way around it. The most logical option was for me to clean and dress and stuff the wound until it stopped draining. Miraculously, I was able to help him without feeling nauseous or woozy. Thankfully, for the most part, I was able to look away as I pressed on the wound to make more (or as much as was willing to come when I applied pressure) fluid come out. I guess that's true love, hey?
Gross topic. Right?
Part of me is really fascinated by it, too. I've thought for a long time that maybe my life calling is to be a nurse. Maybe it is, and I'm stubbornly hanging on to the fact that I don't want to go to school for four years (or upgrade academically) before hitting the books. And, now that I have children, that option is very unlikely- for a while, at least.
His pain was also a great opportunity to scrapbook.