On July 5th, while enjoying a spectacular beach day on the southern Maine coast, I cut my left shin. I won’t publicly abase myself with the details of my stupidity. Suffice it to say it was one of those instants you kind of blank out on, but wish you could have back, a moment of total concentration loss that could qualify for America’s Home Bloopers. Regardless, the gash and bleeding it produced were significant enough to consider a trip to the ER, which I did and quickly rejected, my second idiotic mistake on that day. By the time I got home one beach towel was soaked in blood. Sue got the first aid supplies, always a hodgepodge of different offerings in our house, the sum total of what’s been acquired on an as-needed basis throughout the years.
After eventually staunching the blood flow and saturating the wound in, first hydrogen peroxide and then Neosporin, Sue dressed it as best she could. I figured since it stopped bleeding and created a tolerable level of throbbing, I had dodged a bullet, sparing myself the time and expense of an afternoon in the ER.
Indeed, during the next two weeks or so, as I fastidiously attended to the gash, healing seemed to move apace, to the point that by the eve of my birthday weekend the injury appeared a non issue I was ready to put fully in the rear view. That afternoon I took a very long swim at our club and felt great. That evening the only thing reminding me of the cut was substantial itchiness I attributed to the final stages of healing. I scratched around the scabbing wound, seeking relief and was aggravated at myself when a drizzle of blood resulted. Still, I didn’t even bother to cover the area when I went to bed, figuring the air would aid in the scabbing process… And then things headed directly south.
The next morning I awoke to moderate throbbing at a wound site that now also seemed to be growing red and beginning to swell. Moreover, it was secreting a slightly yellowish stream of liquid. Instead of considering seeing my primary care “physicians team,” a pinpoint efficient patient factory always willing to see billable insured walk-ins, I merely splashed on some hydrogen peroxide and applied both Neosporin and gauze, hopeful they would stem the tide of this setback… yet another moronic health decision I would pay dearly for.
Numerous times throughout the pandemic hypochondriac impulses have caused me to feel feverish, certain the Rona had finally nabbed me. Our trusty underarm thermometer could always be counted on to abate such paranoia. So by late afternoon, when I felt ague setting in, I sought the reassurance my reliable 96.8 reading always provided. Instead I got 101.4. Hoping it was simply a misreading I tried again… 101.6 this time. Health hell had come a-calling.
By nightfall my temperature was 104.5 and I was a shivering mass of dead-man-laying under covers wholly inadequate to the job. Sue repeatedly offered to take me to the ER, but the tortuous discomfort I associated with such a trip rendered it out of the question; at that moment I couldn’t even summon up the the ambition to try for my bathroom. Calling an ambulance was considered but rejected due to the trauma it would cause my son Luke, whose autism anxiety levels would surely peak from such drama. I’ve been hit head-on by a car, which is hard to top in the pain and discomfort department, but the evening of July 25th was a not-that-distant second.
I came to at dawn sopped in sweat, grateful my fever had broken. However, my relief was short-lived as the now intense throbbing from my leg grabbed my attention. I was frightened to look at it, certain that only grossness awaited. It was worse than expected, my near entire left shin red and swollen. What was a three-inch scab 24 hours before was now a gaping crevice that exuded a vile pus, a sight straight out of Google’s worst images catalog of dire skin infections, necrosis in the making.
It would take more than a month of several different very powerful antibiotics and the fortunate intervention of a top-flight “wound-care” practice to cure the near devastating results of my reckless health decisions. My doctor was adamant that only the greatest of fortune kept me from an often fatal case of sepsis. Moreover, the infection “exploded” a tunnel in my leg that required thrice-weekly professional attention, lest it become reinfected and a hideous new infection cycle take hold. In all it was a harrowing ordeal I should offer prayers of gratitude for surviving intact. Should I fail to appreciate its lessons throughout what is left of my future, I deserve whatever befalls me.
In November of 2016 America stumbled badly and suffered a deep gash to the trunk of its governance. Rather than recognize the seriousness of the wound and provide it the care required to heal properly, we stuck a band aid on it, normalized the symptoms it exuded, and went back to our routines, confident in our system’s ability to fight off infection.
On 1/6 the folly of that approach filled our television screens, and what had been festering for four years exploded into the hot and heaving mass such negligence was bound to produce, blowing open wide tunnels for bacteria to spread further and strengthen. Yet even then we convinced ourselves the ER was not essential, that the swelling and ugly secretions could still abate on their own. A committee here, a public scolding there… perhaps a criminal referral or two.
Incredibly, as 2022 dawns, scores still hold tight to the delusion our body can cleanse itself, even as many each day wonder if it is now too late for any effective intervention. American democracy and the governance it creates limps listlessly on legs that only throb harder and grow a deeper shade of purple, immersed in the uncontrolled spread of virulent toxicity. By this time next year there will be nothing left to doubt. Somehow we will have discovered the will to pursue effective treatment of our condition… or the infection will have overwhelmed us, and like Augustus McCrae, who in the seminal novel Lonesome Dove, refused to allow “old sawbones” to cut off his other blood-poisoned wheel, all that will be left is a few last gulps of whiskey. Either way, the DR aims to steadfastly chronicle our fate. BC