Monday, November 21, 2005

I thought I should expand some more on these abscesses, as well as my other ailments. I want to clarify that this is the type of post to which a thirteen year old girl would leave "TMI" as a comment. So at the end of this you may feel like you know more about Rory then you ever cared to. Consider yourself warned.

The face is healing nicely. I may end up with scars on my neck, all the other discoloration associated with being ablaze should be gone after a few sun cycles. The abscesses are a bigger deal, and I feel like the fire is in part responsible. My thinking is that while my body was preoccupied with fixing my face these infections swooped in and started acting rowdy, and I don't think I gave my lymphatic system enough time to do crowd control.

When the first abscess developed they cut two holes in my armpit for drainage and I have to keep these holes open so that the cavity can heal from the inside out. The doctor does that when I go there every other day. On days I'm not at the doctor I get to manually poke at them with a Q-tip. Oh happy day! The pain is bearable, knowing that you're causing pain is the problem. Imagine putting a fork into an electrical socket: not the result of doing such a thing, but the mentality you would have doing such a thing knowing what the result will be. Then you have some understanding of what that entails. They ran some tests and discovered that antibiotic resistant bacteria, or MRSA, is the cause of my troubles. I'm not sure how I got this; it sorta sounds like some prize I'd pull out of a cereal box.

Had that been it, my troubles would have been over last week, but the guy in my armpit has been joined by two compadres on my rear and stomach. This muchacho on my butt has been a particular pain. While having a second hole in my ass makes me ergonomically superior to all other humans, it hurts like a bitch. His emergence also led the doctor to believe that this outbreak was more then just a localized thing, so they ran some more tests and discovered that these anti-antibiotic-biotics have set up camp and are roasting marshmallows in my nasal passage and my rectum!

Before this gets too disgusting, I feel the need to mention that my doctor is actually a cute woman: early thirties I would guess, very nice, and she's a freaking doctor, but after repeated visits I'm running out of material and good spirits. Sometimes it seems like we're flirting, other times she seems in a hurry to get out of there. I'd ask her out if she wasn't already swabbing my ass on a regular basis. I mean, why buy the cow... you know.

Let me pause to admire that, that's the funniest thing I've ever written.

This is where it really gets nasty. Up until then I was only taking pain-killers. This from a guy who has never taken medicine for anything more then a headache since ever. Going commando with my ailments has led to me having the Rolls-Royce of immune systems. Although somewhat overworked, this puppy is the model of luxury and efficiency. This was changed when they began prescribing a healthy diet of pills and creams. All the medicine I'm on has some sort of side effect. Some are known issues, some are unknown allergies, others are just a result of a changing body.

My medication start with three things. The first was an antibiotic to take once daily; it makes my pee orange. That one's fine, it turns every trip to the bathroom into a fiesta. The second was a stronger antibiotic to take twice a day. It was not fine. They advise you to stay out of the sun because you will have some sort of photosynthetic reaction. Considering where I live and when I work and the volume of video games I play, that's like telling a eunuch to curb his libido. Evidently my body running a Calvin Cycle was the least of my worries seeing as how I never so much as saw natural light and my skin became one entire rash. Sure enough there was a cream as well as pills to take for that. It also had constipation as a side effect. They switched me to a less virulent antibiotic that has diarrhea as a side effect. That's been a fun transition.

The last element of this trifecta are two tubes of antibiotic ointment. The first I have to put in my nose (the ointment, not the tube). The instructions say to really get it in there, to the point where I can taste it on the back of my throat, and not only does it taste great, but it's less filling. The other tube (and I'm really opening myself up here**) is pleasantly labeled "butt cream" (technically its labeled "MIPIROCIN OINTMENT," but right next to that scribbled in bright blue marker I wrote "BUTT CREAM.") Thankfully the instructions for application to the naughty end don't specify the same taste requirements as the snotty end, but the process is still uncomfortable.
**Literally and figuratively.

This is not the end. There's a reason why every time I look up my symptoms I get AIDS as a possible diagnosis. No Voda, I don't have AIDS, but the general concept applies. People who suffer from AIDS don't die of AIDS. They're immune system is weakened to the point that common colds become insufferable and they eventually die of a papercut. These antibiotics are turning my Bentley of an immune system into the Geo Metro of the immunity world. For example, we all have fungi on our tongues. Normally there are good bacteria in your body that keep them at bay. I no longer have those bacteria and have developed what is effectively a yeast infection in my mouth. (I'm not a slut it's called thrush, look it up) And yes, there's another medicine for that too.

My body is doing everything short of poking me with a broom to tell me that it wants me to knock the shit off. I tried explaining to my boss that the third Lord of the Rings movie was taking place inside of me, but he's uber-Christian so he didn't get it. After one night of no sleep, cold sweats, and violent vomiting to the point of straining my eyeball out of the socket I think he figured it out. That and a note from doctor lady has put me on light duty, meaning I only work 30 hours a week. I only get paid for 30 hours a week as well, but all things considered I think I'm in the bonus area.

Suffice it to say I'm not in the best physical condition. More often then not I'm preoccupied with sleeping versus any other activity. Internally I'm undergoing major change and I'm not seeing the benefits of it. All I know is that if I don't get superhero powers after this is over, I'm going to be pissed.

  Thursday, November 03, 2005

I was at a Weezer/Foo Fighters concert, stoned off my ass. It was awesome!

That's the end of the story, it begins two weeks ago. I awoke with a twingey pain from three small bumps residing in my armpit. This is what I believed to be swollen lymph-nodes, a condition I've had before, and most likely, along with breaking-out, the side effect of a charred face. By the way, when I say "breaking-out" I don't mean pimples, although that's part of it. I mean random spots that open up and gush blood; a sure fire sign that I'm demonically possessed. If it wasn't happening to me, it would be the coolest thing ever. To ensure this all wasn't something more dramatic, I found this little sucker on the net where I could look up my symptoms to see what I'm suffering from. Surprisingly, lighting your face on fire isn't on there, but I could have AIDS, Hodgkin's Disease, or The Bubonic Plague.

I went to work thinking this would be a good excuse to bail out early. I putzed around for a few hours, and took time to go pine after the Basement Store Girl, or BSG as she has come to be known. BSG is the most attractive person in the world, although her teeth are somewhat pointy, ahh I'm nitpicking. No seriously, she's super hot, like any girl that's ever worked at Cinnabon hot, or Panera Bread, or Urban Outfitters, like 'way out of my league' hot is what I'm trying to say. Whatever.

During the weekend, these things in my pit pull a Voltron on me and form together into one large invincible swollen mound. I would liken it to all the disease in your body renting a boat and having an orgy in your armpit. I hoped my mom, afflicted at some point in her lifetime with every known disease, might have some insight. I have not told my mom about the fire, that would kill her. This gunk wad just made her cry. She told me to go to a doctor. Now I have a problem with going to the doctor, it's the same problem I have with going to Frisbee clubs and talking to girls. I'm scared of initiating things. I could care less what the doctor does to me, I know I'll live. I'm not scared of rejection or failure. I just can't force myself to engage a person for the first time; it's a serious psychological issue. I explain this to my mom. "Well get over it," she says. Thanks mom, decades of this and I never realized it was something I needed to overcome, but now, listening to you command it, well that's just enough to get me over the hump. She cried more.

I'm hoping that my mom is super intelligent and this is just her method. If so it works. Suffering from what is now a golf ball sized lump of puss later diagnosed as an infectious abscess, I called the doctor and scheduled an appointment. It was painless (the phone call not the abscess, that hurt like hell), I knew it would be. Armed with some new found confidence, I attacked some other lingering issues. I walked right up to BSG and engaged her in conversation:

ME: Hi, I see you all the time, but I don't know your name. I'm Rory.
BSG: Shauna.
ME: Well Shauna, I would like to take you to a concert.
BSG: Well, I have a boyfriend so...
ME: I'm not asking him out, I'm asking you.

At this point my balls were about six times their normal size, perhaps there was an abscess there as well, I'm not sure. She was more nervous then I was, fumbling over some of her words. Perhaps she was overwhelmed by my confidence. Suppressed diffident Rory wanted to shake her silly and scream, "YOU ARE EXTREMELY ATTRACTIVE!" but I refrained. She wanted me to ask again the next day which didn't bode well. Still, thinking about me as she contemplates the future of her current relationship: I hope Fakey McDoesntexist isn't the jealous type.

At the hospital they cut open my lump, squeeze out the puss, and stuff it with gauze. They gave me Ibuprofen and Percoset for the pain. I actually think that the Ibuprofen does a better job of relieving pain and I can use it at work, but the Percoset makes you loopy, so it’s infinitely better. Technically it’s a narcotic, and you need special approval to fill a prescription of it. Understandable since I’m high as a kite an hour after taking it. In fact, I'm on it right now, and I'm loaded.

I drudge into work the next day for the sole purpose of following up with BSG. She did say no. My plan was to get out quick and make an emergency landing before my plane got blown away. Not only did it explode, but my ejector seat got all caught and tangled with the parachute. Perhaps I was nervous, perhaps it was the meds, perhaps it was the telling her I was on meds. No, that was it; definitely the part where I told her I was on medication. God, I’m an idiot. Honestly though, a relationship with BSG would ruin me for all other women, and as far as I'm concerned, getting a girl like that, just to think about dating you, especially when you still have burn scars and shit all over your face, is a victory in itself.

But there was still a concert to go to, and I went stoned off my ass. It was awesome!