Yesterday morning I spent a half an hour in the waiting room at the doctor's office, biding my time until I could be seen. (For what I'm not telling because that is part of the whole "having boundaries" thing. Besides, if I don't tell you, you can imagine all sorts of interesting calamities: spider monkey bite, bad clams, hoof-and-mouth disease.)
Anyway, after a few minutes, a gentleman came in and asked to see the doctor because his finger seemed to be getting infected. Now, that would have been plenty, PLENTY of information, particularly because he used words like "red" and "streaky" to the receptionist. But he felt the need to explain in EXPLICIT DETAIL how he came to have a wound in his finger in the first place. Apparently, a pneumatic nail gun will sometimes discharge a nail when you don't expect it to. And if your hand is in the way, it will go all the way down to the bone. ASK ME HOW I KNOW THIS.
I know this because he said it. Three times. Once to the receptionist, twice more to other people in the waiting room who were already looking a little green around the gills. (This begs the question, what kind of moron doesn't get the prescription for antibiotics filled the FIRST time he goes to the doctor for a nail in the hand?) By the time he worked the word "pus" into conversation, I was fetal under my chair and rocking quietly, humming "Dem Bones" under my breath. I have never been so happy to hear a nurse call my name in my life, let me tell you. (And I was also wondering why he sounded strangely like Eeyore. Did slamming a nail gun into his flesh make him depressed, or did his natural lethargy contribute to his poor carpentry skills?)
There are some things I have a pretty strong stomach about. I have changed oozy dressings when required. My mother hemorrhaged after a tonsillectomy (TWICE, in fact), and both times I did things that left me looking like the star pupil of the Donner Party Culinary School. I have pulled stitches out of my father's head with a pair of pliers, and I have given my husband shots more times than I can count. But no one besides a TRAINED medical professional needs to hear about stranger pus first thing in the morning. Remember that, I beg you.
