Drip, drip, drip…

I don’t generally consider myself to be a vain person. If you could see my cracked, unpedicured heels, you would have to agree. Don’t get me wrong, I do succumb on the odd occasion that I have to leave the homestead for outings other than Kinder Drop Off, School Drop Off, the corresponding Pick Ups. Sadly, these are few and far between, so primping, preening, nay, brushing my hair, are luxuries I seldom entertain.

So imagine, if you will, how much I must have detested the fugly lump that grew upon my shoulder blade when pregnant with my 2nd born. This bodily addition doubled in size when the latest baby was in utero, and another, smaller piece of ugly grew about 5 cm away, to the north just to add to the hideousness of my back. I took myself off to the local GP a couple of weeks back and told him that I couldn’t stand these monstrosities on my back any longer. They made me feel uglier and fatter than even reality would suggest I am, on my worst day. Even the children had began to note when seeing me showering that “Those things on your back are so gross Mum!”. It was time.

So there I sad, various shirts and undergarments smooshed unceremoniously up about my pits while the Doc had a bo peep at the skin tags. More like skin abominations. He merrily agreed that they were disgusting and must be removed, “..especially that big one!” he exclaimed in horror. I am fairly sure he stood back and gagged a little at that point. Perhaps overcome with revulsion, it was then that he just quietly suggested that he have a bit of a go with some liquid nitrogen right now. I had clearly conveyed my desperate need to be rid of these feral lumps. Not having any previous experience with liquid nitrogen, I quickly agreed. He warned me that the larger of the two may not drop off, given that it was likely it had a “deep stem”. My turn to puke into my mouth a little.

Off he went to what I assume to be the cupboard housing items of pain and punishment. He returned, a discernible spring in his step, with a couple of normal looking cotton buds and a small bowl. “Had anything burned off before, have you?” he enquired. Nope, not a thing, never had a filling in my teeth either, I proudly offered.  As he busied himself preparing the grotesque-lump-removal kit, I sat dreaming of my post-nitro back, all smooth and dewy, like the back of my youthful, pre-baby body.

I came too with a shriek. The insistent pressing of burning nitrogen into my lump was a pain the likes of which I had not felt before. Childbirth? Meh. This was unbelievable. I bit my knuckle, kicked the table and tried to remember that two of my children were in the room, and that dropping the F-bomb was not an option. “Your Mum’s a bit of a woos” noted the sadist…I mean Doctor, to the 4 year old. “I think you’re hurting her with that stuff”, rebuffed my gorgeous son. I think he pressed the white hot stuff into my lumps for a total of 5 minutes. I may, of course, have blacked out for unspecified amounts of time, I can’t be sure. When he had finally finished, he again suggested that the smaller lump would likely just fall off, while he couldn’t be sure the big bastard would. If not, I would need to make an appointment with his colleague, who would cut it out. You know, like coal, or an iceberg.

So here we are, two weeks on. The little skin tag has indeed fallen off, with little fan fare or worry. The larger, uglier skin tag, now with its very own postcode and taking Christmas Card delivery, has not. No, it has morphed, would you believe, into something entirely more horrid that it was to begin with. This is really saying something. Crisis point was reached this morning after my shower, when I felt what I assumed was hair water dripping onto my back and down my side. I reached up, bent my wrist around and pulled the many times changed dressing off the…let’s call it an organism. The band aid was red, soaked with blood, only a thick splodge of pus bang in the middle breaking up the scarlet pools. It smelled really freakin’ awful. I turned around to try to see what was going on in the mirror behind me. Even without my glasses on, I could see that the drip, drip, dripping as not water from my hair, but blood fairly pissing down my back and side, from the organism.

Try as I might to stem the tide with my yellow towel, all I managed to achieve was…an orange towel. Nice. I had the Groom pop 47 band aids over it, so that I could get going and have the boys to their swimming lessons on time. I called NurseOnCall, just to get an opinion. They suggested I had an infection, and that if I started to feel hot, to go to hospital. Can you imagine dying as the result of attempting to have a hideous but harmless back growth removed?!  “She never saw it coming…being as it was on her back. Still, that’ll teach her for being so up herself”. Vanity. The moment you give in to it, nothing but blood and pus. That’ll learn me. Now, where did I put that crimson nail varnish…

2 thoughts on “Drip, drip, drip…”

  1. Ew, can't offer any beauty tips on the organism, I'm afraid, but I did get rid of my cracked heels with the miraculous Eulactyl Heel Balm, available at all good chemists. If it helps to know that you are not alone in your childbirth induced suffering, I deleloped a major case of psoriosis during my 3rd pregnancy: you haven't seen ugly until you witness your whole torso red raw from skin sloughing off, and need to use a dustpan and brush to sweep up the dead skin when you take your clothes off for a shower. The coal tar ointments prescribed for said condition required neck to knee coverings to preserve the bed sheets, so you can easily imagine my bedtime lover rating. Thankfully it was one of those hormone exacerbated things that went away after the birth. But I still live in fear of it lurking somewhere in my system, ready to make me look like an escapee from a leper colony again…


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