Or this gem:
Or what might have been my absolute favorite day at work thus far...
So in dealing with an honest-to-Freud Sociopath for 40 hours a week for the past 3 months why the hell wasn't I having just the best time ever? Well, up until recently, I'd gotten pretty good at just tuning her out and rolling my eyes at her behind her back, determined not to let her drag me down to her level or to make me feel bad about myself. But then something changed.
The first weekend in August I developed an ingrown thumb nail. Sounds very uneventful right? That's what I thought too. If you've ever have an ingrown nail, you know that the pain that comes with it can be excruciating, especially if it becomes infected. Lucky me, that's what happened. Not only did the ingrown nail become infected, but it grew into something...else.
I noticed the ingrown nail on a Saturday. By the following Friday, it had exploded into a bleedy disgusting mound of pain and terrible. I dare not describe it further because it's gross. Just know that it was awful. And hurty. You guys, this thing is so painful, if spinal surgery is the worst pain I've ever experienced in my life (and it is), this thumb shit is a very near second. It got to the point where I was so freaked out and fed up, I needed to seek medical attention.
After hours of trying to locate an urgent care facility within 50 miles of me that was covered by my HMO, I said "fuck it" and decided to go to the community clinic where we went when we thought Boyfreind's jaw was falling off. After the usual joy that comes with waiting for a doc at the clinic, I finally got to go into an exam room. I had Boyfriend come in with me because I assumed that the entire nail was just going to need to be cut out to relieve the swelling and pain and I wanted someone to hold my hand. (My good hand.)
While we waited for an eternity in the freezing room for the doctor, I tried to decide on what would be the worse scenario: the doc looks at my thumb and tells me I'm over-reacting and to go home, meaning we wasted time and money going to the clinic OR the doctor looks at my thumb and freaks out because I'm dying of some horrific rare disease and my thumb is about to fall off. Boyfriend snorted at me in bemusement, and told me I was being silly. I will say this: I hate being right.
|Someone buy me this shirt|
The doctor finally came in and I told her about the ingrown nail. She asked me to remove my bandages. After I did, she gasped and stared at my thumb in stunned silence. Great. Eventually she was able to mutter a couple of "Oh My"s while she poked at the horrible-awful that was my thumb. I glanced terrified at Boyfriend who just stared back at me wide-eyed.
So, short-story-long, the doctor put in an urgent referral to a hand surgeon who might need to drain it or cut it off or whatever it is that hand surgeons do in this case. I don't know what that thing is because even the clinic doctor didn't have any clue what the fuck was wrong with my thumb. She said she'd never seen anything like it. Awesome.
|It's never good when your doctor makes this face...|
According to the doctor's post-it, I have a Pyogenic Granuloma (for the love of all that is good and holy, do not Google images of this, save your eyes.)
So what is it exactly? Well, the clinic doctor couldn't tell me, so I turned to my old frenemy: WebMD. According to the internet, I basically have a benign lesion or tumor growing out of my thumb. Supposedly, it's not uncommon in teen and young-adult women. It's caused by injury, trauma, or hormone fluctuation, like during pregnancy. Well, I'm most definitely not preggo, but I figure the combination of all the stress hormones from me suppressing my rage for 8 hours a day at work and my ingrown nail manifested into this terrible awful.
You know, like this:
So, I as sit here at home, still waiting for my "urgent referral" to come in the mail (our healthcare system at work, ladies and gentlemen,) I'm actually starting to wonder: if I concentrate hard enough, maybe the damn thing will fall off on it's own.
So, here is what I need from you, dear reader(s) if you're still with me:
What should I name my tumor? I figure if we all hate it by name together, maybe it'll just up and leave.
Hey, it can't be dumber than waiting for an "urgent" referral for surgery to arrive via the United States Postal Service, right? What is this, 1850?