So, when it comes to taking care of myself, I prefer a hands-on approach. For example, if I feel a pimple coming on, I must pop it, ready or not. If I find some weird bump, I must poke and prod at it until it is gone. I can’t just be patient and wait for it to go away. If I have some muscle that is in a knot, or a sharp pain, I have to knead the hell out of it, figuring that I will see stars permanently or I will somehow beat it in to submission. I also take great pleasure out of doing these things to other people.
In fact, this is one of the myriad of reasons I get along so well with my sister. We revel in sharing such things with each other. A possible conversation between us:
Me: Hey sis, I have this weird stabbing pain in my back, could you work on it?
Her: Where is it?
Me: Between my shoulder blades.
Her (feeling around) Here?
Me: No, but now that you are pushing on that spot as hard as you can, I think it’s worse than the other spot. Does it feel crunchy?
Her: Yeah, especially when I dig into it with my elbow.
Me: Wow, my arm is numb, and I can’t seee out of my right eye, you must be doing something right. Is there any way you can get more leverage?
My sister would then proceed to use knees, elbows, children, whatever, to try and get the knot out. Eventually she would get to the spot that I wanted her to work on. Then, when I can’t feel any extremities, and my vision is gone, I say, “thanks, that felt really good, I have this weird lump on my back, do you think it’s ready to pop?”
She would look at it, mumble something about it probably being a tumor, I assure her that it can be squeezed out, she works on it some more, gives up, then I go feeling around with my fingers (which are slowly waking up) sure that I can take care of it. I repeat this over several days, until the thing is gone or totally mangled. Let me tell you, G loves this side of me. Much the way he loves oral surgery and the flu.
If I see anyone else with a pimple, a part of me wants to help them out and pop it. The almost rational side of me talks the crazy side out of it. Heck, I’ve even thought about becoming an aesthetician, so that people would pay me to poke around in their pores. Charming huh?
Sometimes, I think I might have a problem. Like when my sister told me about a friend of hers. Their family was camping, when an abscess was discovered behind the daughter’s ear. They pack up and head home. The mom researches on the internet, thinks it’s mastoiditis, and rushes the daughter to the ER. It is mastoiditis, caused by a cyst that ruptured, got infected, became an abscess, and started eating through part of her ear and skull. She had to have surgery, and if they waited much longer the abscess would have started eating away at her brain.
So, Sis and I are discussing it, realizing if it would have been one of us, we would have been screwed. We would’ve been poking at it, trying to squeeze it out or something, and keeled over in the process. You would think that I learned something from that story. Nope. Although, I do hope that whatever I am poking at isn’t something that will kill me.
Please note: I do wash my hands before and after any of these little enterprises. I’m not that disgusting.
So, I have a stye one my right eye (yup, I’m a poet, don’t I know it). Of course, I figure I can pop it, like I always do. But this one is relly deep, and it’s bothering me (I only messed with it this morning, once). I want to just squeeze it out, but it doesn’t want to let me. I know that if my sister were here, she would fix it up good, but she is two states away. I could see a doctor, but that isn’t any fun. I may actually do the sensible thing, and apply a hot compress, and let it go away on its own. Imagine that.
Wow, I can’t believe I shared that. But, I did. So there. So, I’m off to lie down, with a compress.