Death, where is thy sting?

27 08 2010

…in my arm, it would seem.

‘Death’ probably isn’t the correct word here, but it feels more appropriate than just saying ‘pain’. Last week, Wednesday or Thursday evening (most probably Thursday), I met with the unfortunate event of burning myself with the bottom edge of a way-more-than-just-tepid pot fresh off the stove. It’s no secret that I tend to cut or burn myself, injuries seem to be part of my genetic make-up, yet these are always minor incidents. How this particular occurrence came about I have not a clue, but I do not that it hurt like the dickens.

It’s not a big mark, only 1.5 cm by 0.8 cm (approximately). The new layer of skin it started to make came off over the weekend, and since then it has been a downward spiraling battle I think I am going to lose.

Death by hot cooking pot – not the way I thought I’d go, it’s seems pretty odd/ strange. But Mark Twain said: “Why shouldn’t truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense”. Don’t we all know it.

A whole section of my forearm (close to my wrist, that’s where I bloody burnt myself!) ended up swollen, dark pink, and seemingly infectious. Ointments didn’t seem to help; we cleaned it and put on bandages, only for it to get stuck and make the wound bleed; I’ve even been taking Nurofen Plus to try and alleviate the pain and burning sensation – because for some reason, one week later, what looks to the naked eye like a minor burn is giving much more trouble than it ought to.

Yesterday I was sick. My whole body felt ill, my head was pounding, and my arm was giving me grief. I don’t even know how to sleep, because a slight turning of the arm causes a dull throbbing sensation. My Significant Other insists that the wound is looking better… I simply keep being dramatic and say this is such a anticlimactic way to die.

You’ve got to keep life interesting, after all.

Speaking of which, you wouldn’t believe what hair-brained scheme he came up with yesterday. I wanted to take a shower in order to wash my hair, and he kept insisting that I shouldn’t get the wound wet – so he came up with this ‘brilliant plan’ of his: wrapping my forearm in cling wrap and securing it to my arm with sticky tape.

I kid you not.

Apparently it doesn’t matter if you feel stupid doing it, because nobody’s going to see you anyway…

And what happens? First, the circulation is slowly but surely cut of from my arm, causing the outline of the wound to stand out even more, a hideous red ring like a mark left on a branded cow. Second… his scheme wasn’t successful… some or other way, water still managed to enter this whatever-it-is he created, and when I wanted to dry myself off, a jet of water squirted out *sigh* But hey, precaution is better than cure, right? R-i-i-i-ght…

I hope this literal sting of the metaphorical ‘death’ of a section of my arm is short-lived. It’s not healthy to think about amputation on such a fine, cold Friday morning in August…

…and it just had to be my good (writing) arm, didn’t it?

That’s enough drama from my side. Have a lovely Friday, everyone! Only one third of the year left.

Battle scars - i haz them...

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