When things really came to a -- wherever

Things really came to a head a couple of weeks ago. Well, I think I should appropriately rephrase it as “things really came to a rump,” because to be precise, the unmentionable hindquarter is where things finally came to.

It all started with M coming down with a high fever, which adamantly refused to respond to the good old acetaminophen, coupled with a certain hesitancy to sit down and bear weight on the said hindquarters. When his walk also began to resemble that of a tired and maybe slightly inebriated penguin and my overused ear thermometer refused to record anything below 102ºF, I overrode his habitual denials and took him to a doctor. The diagnosis was quick enough – an abscess on the – ahem – aforementioned rump. The surgeon was consulted, and although we had a little heated debate about the location of the abscess – perianal vs perirectal – which might have led to a misconception on his part that I am medically enlightened and which made M’s eyes roll in impatience, he was unequivocal about the treatment required – an incision and drainage of the said abscess as soon as possible.

The next day saw us at the hospital at the wake of dawn, where an I&D was performed in under an hour and M was wheeled out sleeping like a baby, still knocked out after general anesthesia. The surgeon, still under the probable misconception of my medical prowess, rattled out a series of instructions to me on how to care for the wound, which in retrospect I should have paid more attention to, while I was more interested in squeezing M’s hand in a fit of connubial love.

That night, back at home, our first hurdle loomed before us, quite literally. We looked at the mountainous pile of dressing materials in front of us – surgical alcohol, Betadine, cotton swabs, alcohol wipes, gauze, surgical tape, cotton buds, a huge box of gloves – and all we needed to do was change the dressing. I assured M that I could do it with my eyes shut and that he was in good pair of hands. About ten minutes into the process, I sincerely began to wish that I had more than a pair of them – hands, I mean. Because, as a layman, you are simply not trained in your daily life to hold the Betadine-soaked gauze on a curved space, tear the surgical tape off an excessively adhesive roll, and tape it in place without any of your fingers, hair, or items of your clothing getting stuck in between, all with just two hands. M offered to help which ended with his fingers getting in the way too. Finally, after half an hour of intense effort, a Betadine-stained sheet, half a roll of surgical tape, a very sticky – ahem – rump, and really choice expletives, we managed to change the dressing. The battle was won, but the war was to last at least for another two weeks.

The rough edges did smoothen out with each passing day. Although there were still instances of taped butt cheeks or a glove getting stuck to the end of the tape, thus giving rise to many butt jokes and extremely hilarious moments (for me at least; M stoically offered most of the jokes), things that came to a rump were slowly receding, so to say. The wound was healing, in spite of my administrations, and that was a huge deal. The war is not yet won though. We still have things to worry about – a curious four-year-old who will stop at nothing to find out what “dressing change” her mom and dad are doing behind closed doors, a bacteria which does not look to be effectively annihilated, a thermometer that still shows erratic numbers, and a woozy head – mine – that still feels faint looking at a wound.

But yesterday, the surgeon commended my nursing skills. M says he just has a crush on me. I gloat, either way.