I am in awe of anyone in the healthcare profession. Particularly those who can look at, touch and fix broken, bleeding and cut open body parts.
Yesterday I went to have the stitches in my knee removed. I was full of complete anxiety all day long. All day long. I kid you not. Every time I thought of it, my heart rate would speed up, I’d break out in a little mini sweat and my extremities would curl up within themselves.
When I got there, I told the so-young-he-could-be-my-son physician’s assistant who was to be doing the removing that I am a big fat baby and that I was utterly disgusted by the fact that there is thread in my leg holding together pieces of skin. Utterly, utterly disgusted beyond words. I’m not sure if he thought I was funny or just another nut job. But I’m guessing the latter. Because his giggle was more of the “I hope I get the hell out of here alive” anxious type.
So, I laid down on the bed/gurney/whatever it’s called thingy and put a magazine over my face. I yucked, gagged and basically made an ass out of myself. I asked him what was taking so long to which he replied, “I’m done.”
What do you mean you’re done? So, it took him 3 seconds each “hole” to remove my stitches. I guess I should say “stitch” because that is what each incision had. A stitch. All that anxiety over that? Come on. Those people really ought to make it look better. I mean, how dumb will I sound repeating this story to my friends and family (like right now) without any drama. Embarrassing.
So, now I have another issue. I’m freaking out because I have to deal with this weird pulling sensation. Where my stitches were. I’m so incredibly grossed out by this feeling. I don’t know what I’m going to do. And there is something on my bandaid. I had DH look at it last night to make sure there is no blood. He says there isn’t blood. He’s no doctor. But I think I need one. Pronto. Or I may bleed to death. Don’t you think?