I’ve been attacked with bladed articles….by a medical professional.
I have two wounds, chin and forearm.
The one on my chin looks like a cigarette burn. It should be covered for two weeks but a chin is very mobile, talking, laughing, smiling, all result in it shifting about. Honestly, that had never occurred to me before Wednesday this week.
When I changed the hospital dressing on Friday morning it took me four attempts to get a dressing to stick.
During my first workshop session since lockdown, while wrestling with my clear face shield, I could feel the plaster flapping about. I decided, that for my sanity and with respect to any students with sensitive gag reflexes, I’d better just take it off.
I am grateful for face masks, not just because I’m less likely to be spreading disease, or for the little protection it gives me against disease, but because it protects me from the judgement of colleagues and strangers. I don’t have to watch them wondering if I drunkenly tried to smoke a fag from the wrong end and missed my mouth, or if, perhaps, I’m in an abusive relationship.
The face wound was a shock. I had anticipated the slice removed from my arm, although I hadn’t considered it would be so significant that I’d need stitches.
I have a variety of marks that have, for sometime, been under medical scrutiny from a cancer perspective.
While standing in my undies, two specialists discussed whether the offending mark on my face was a bump, a lump, a bobble or a bibble. Could it be a dangerously lumpscious bibblerdocsious?
They didn’t use those words exactly, their vocabulary was beyond my understanding.
I’ve no idea what you’re saying, I said.
It’s alright, we do, was the reply.
Results in a month.
fat tart 