Stitches Get Snitches

There’s no pain involved, the husband said.

No need to stress or worry, the doctor said.

This part is easy, both members of the male council agreed.

And they were both 1000% WRONG!!!!

It pinched, it stung, there was unpleasant and what I felt to be unnecessary pressure and then some extra pulling for good measure.

I was tense, my breast laid opened to the ceiling as I squeezed my eyes tightly closed and then realized with a panic that it wasn’t helping, in fact it was making it quite worse.  The pain became more localized. I am eliminating one of the five senses after all, so the other four go into overactive duty to compensate for the one who has given up trying.

I think I have reached the end to my pain tolerance this month, I said through teeth that were gritted, between breaths that came out too close together.

The doctor chuckled although I think he thought I was joking, which I really wasn’t.

I think we all have individual pain tolerances; some people can withstand a whole lot more than others.  I find that there are days when I can handle more, but when I have a period of sustained pain my brain won’t allow for one more ounce of it.  As if to say enough is finally enough.  I can’t handle this for one more moment.

When I cracked my femur in 2017, my brain did something very similar, so I do believe that my experience in this particular area is somewhat valid.

I had to go to the eye doctor and my doctor at the time was in the mall.  I know….classy.  I was still on crutches when my designated appointment date arrived. I made the rather lengthy haul to his office.  I huffed, I puffed, but there were no straw or stick houses to blow down.  Although I really wish there had been.  I would have done some real damage and probably could have used the release.

My face was blushed red with exertion as I plopped down in the patient’s chair.  The nurse performed all of the typical tests that are done before you see the eye doctor and I was fine, I was really doing fine until

the dreaded

glaucoma test.

I have noticed that now this particular test has changed to be a great deal more comfortable, but at that time they were still puffing air into an eye that you had to hold wide and open.

I have done this test before, many times in fact.  I don’t like it, but have never had that much of a problem until this particular day.

I can’t do it, my brain told me and I found, quite to my shocked people pleasing nature, that I was voicing out loud my brain’s demands because I couldn’t actually do the thing and I wouldn’t.

The nurse looked at me critically.  Her lips sourly pursed in judgement.

I will sign whatever you want me to, I said. A waiver or something like that?  I promise I won’t sue if I find that I actually have glaucoma. But I am not going through with that test.  I just can’t do it.

She hastily shooed me into another room to see the doctor and I heard her sharp tone complaining in the next room, but I really didn’t care at this point.  How can you explain to someone that you are in pain and it doesn’t ever seem like it’s going to get better?  Your brain has reached its limit and so have you and that is just that.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have that luxury when getting my stitches removed.  It was one of those things that had to happen whether I was ready to handle it or not.

I was told that one of the stitches had gotten caught in a part of some scabbing, but I feel it was going to hurt one way or the other.  How could it not?  I was having little, tiny threads removed from the top of my nipple, a very sensitive area indeed.

Haven’t I put my breasts through enough, I thought on the drive home.

I am going to have a shot of tequila after this experience, I promptly thought next.  In fact, they should make that a staple in every doctor’s office when you have any type of procedure especially when you are wide awake and in an overtly feeling mood.

My nail tech has it available when she has to fix ingrown toenails, so why shouldn’t a doctor, especially one who is about to pinch and pull, push and press?

It’s all done now I will have you know and I found myself lamenting to the doctor afterwards, I may just be a baby.  Although I really don’t think that I was acting as such. Sometimes you just have had enough.  Your body is done with your shenanigans and shuts down from the world and all its utensils.

I rested the rest of the week.  And when I say rested, I mean I probably walked on average 50 steps and that was mainly to the kitchen, to pour a shot of tequila, after having some protein mixed with veggies because

you know

balance.