Staying the Antibiotic Course

Not much news to report on the swollen cesspool wound front today. The Hubster still looks like he tried to feed a tiger by strapping a raw T-bone steak to his left ankle.

The kids are wild, crazy and surprisingly positive, with only one exception: The Lawyer asked me last night if a Staph infection "could kill Daddy?" I suppose a question like that could be considered more curious and suspicious than negative. After tucking The Lawyer's outer space comforter around his (healthy) feet, I answered: "No. Dad's going to be just fine. He just needs a lot of love, rest and medicine."

What I was thinking: "Technically speaking, well ... Oh, and he could lose a limb ... " and a number of other worst case scenarios that reflexively burp to the surface in my perpetually negative thinking mind.

Think positive (whatever that is), think positive.

I forgot to give an update on The Lawyer's health yesterday. His pediatrician looked him over on Tuesday. Other than minor road rash on his back, shoulders and knees, he's fine. Since the appointment was also his regularly scheduled six-year appointed (uh, super late, though ... he turned six Feb. 15), the doctor sized up his height and weight. He's a bit underweight like I was at that lanky age and he's average height. I'm still surprised at how small and average in size my children are. I'm 5' 8" and my husband's 6' 2", so what gives (and why do I care)? Does anyone else out there take those irritating growth charts and stats as (unnecessarily) seriously as I do?

Well, I'm off to do my Thursday two-school shuffle ... First I pick up Cheeks from preschool, next I zip downtown while shoving a random form of crunchy carbs in my face (and tossing some backwards to Pigtails in her car seat) to grab The Lawyer. He'll be "stoked," as he would say, to see his wounded Papa alive and mostly well. Oh, I forgot I'm stopping at a third school to pick up a friend whose kindly pitching in with the kids and chores this weekend.

Tomorrow I wrangle mean bitchface cat, Trixie, and her litter trio, into a kitty carrier I scooped up from a yard sale today. I hope I don't sustain any open wounds from strong arm-ing her furry feline ass. I don't want to catch The Hubster's nasty infection.

Oozing Pus Like a Slow-Drip Coffee Pot

Sometimes it's so hard not to say "I told you so." But in this case, I think I'm a gazillion times justified, just as long as I leave the juvenile "nanner, nanner" bit out of it. I feel the need to state this before informing you that my too-stubborn-to-go-to-the-doc-sooner Hubster has a friggin' Staph infection.

I predicted that he developed Staph in his biggest (gaping-est) ATV accident wound, the shark bite looking chunk of skin on his ankle that continually drips/oozes pus like a slow-drip coffee pot.

As I joked with a bunch of moms outside the gate at the Lawyer's school this morning (a place I'm getting cozy with being now that I'm on morning drive-in duty), the Hubster's left foot smacks of James Caan's inflate-o-matic feet in Stephen King's Misery movie. I'm bummed Google image search wasn't able to turn up a single image scrap of stomach churning Caan's Hollywood effects enhanced clod hoppers. You'll just have to imagine swimming in feet sick on your own.


Another image that also comes to mind when I look at the Hubster's Staphylococcus bacteria factory of an ankle are the Flintstone feet of Mike Myers' "Fat Bastard" character. Keep all this on the DL, please. The Hubster thinks his inner tube sized ankle "looks just great, honey."

On a serious note, the good doc ordered a full blood count work-up, a thorough excavating (cleansing) of the wound, a double strong antibiotic cocktail to cut the narcotic painkillers with and a Staph culture to confirm what he says he "already knows for sure."


If the infection doesn't improve within two days (that is if it goes beyond the permanent marker outline the doctor scrawled around the red swollen areas in question), the Hubster will call the hospital home until otherwise ordered by that same good doc. I can't get over how pissed I am that this never had to escalate to a Staph infection and a dangerous flirtation with Toxic Shock Syndrome (something I know of only from tampon packages).

If only the Hubster were half the hypochondriac I am, he would've had this thing in the can a few days ago, when I first told him the Hell hole wound was a pus making station that required something other than NOTHING, for Christ's sake!

So, here's my day in gore, with a little pre-crash bonus pic at the end. Notice the Hubster's imaginary protective gear. Oh, I'm such a bitch sometimes. At least I know it. I could use a quick lesson in sympathetic nursing, but for right now I'm still worried and miffed.


Yadda, yadda, yadda. Repeat to self: He's going to be just fine. He won't land up in the hospital. Staph ain't nothin' but a chicken wang' dang. Calm the heck down.