Oh that voodoo that you do… Sometimes there’s just no
substitute for hands-on experience.
I underwent surgery on my foot a few weeks ago. It was to correct damage to bone, nerve and
tissue that resulted from on and off infections in an initially small wound
that occurred two-and-a-half years ago. It was a minor puncture, but a
subsequent trip to Jamaica resulted in an infection from tropical marine
bacteria. At least this is what I was told by four independent, reputable
doctors on different occasions. It was very nasty stuff, very hard to cure,
they said. It had morphed and reared its ugly head numerous times, defying even
the most potent antibiotics. The damage
was repaired and now everything was
plodding along fine, pun intended, until the beginning of week two. That’s when
the curse took hold.
Seems a nasty infection ferreted its way in through the open
door of the surgical incision, or it may have been the one from below the
Tropic of Cancer, lying in wait in my bones like an asp in the grass. This came
to light as the doctor merrily pulled the numerous stiches. “Oh my, this isn’t
good,” he said. Those words are not good
coming from a doctor who has visited and removed some of your inner parts. At
least now there was an explanation for the steady increase in pain and obscene
swelling.
After judicious injections of a numbing agent (which was
certainly, and unfortunately, not single-malt scotch) he proceeded to reopen
the incision and swept the gremlins out. I’m not afraid of needles. Really, I’m
not. The good doctor hosed everything down with the stinging-nettle, clinical
smelling variety of disinfectant and wrapped the foot tightly. Well, not quite gift wrapped, but you get the
picture. Doc exhaled slowly. “Along with powerful antibiotics you’re going
to need x-rays and blood work,” he said. “We need to make sure that none of
that infection is in your system and is going to end up in your heart or
brain.” How could I argue? Visions of
more copays danced in my head along with our Christmas shopping list.
“Go wherever you want to for the x-rays; they can draw the
blood here,” he continued.
“Okay. That will save me a trip,” I replied. He exited and I could hear him instruct staff
members outside the ajar door. “See
Mr. Gahan in room one. We need to draw
blood. Complete blood-count,” he said to an invisible tactician.
“What kind of insurance does he have?” she asked. Doc shuffled the papers in the folder and
told her. She seemed pleased.
Waiting for the bloodletting only added to my discouragement
about the way things had gone. I could do without more complications. The most
recent complications paled when the Voodoo King entered. Skinny as a broom handle, his skin was a
tapestry of tattoos. He spoke with a strong Caribbean accent. He had weird
eyes.
“My name is Reggie. I’m an intern. This is my second day,”
he said with a great deal of pride.
“Second day?” I squirmed on the vinyl padding.
“Yes, yes. No problem. All good.”
“I hope so. I mean, if you say so.” I gulped as I watched
him snap on the gloves.
“Roll up your sleeve.”
“Which one?”
“No matter. No problem.”
I chose the right, only because it was the closest to him. I
rolled up my sleeve and reclined. Don’t be a sissy, you’re not afraid of
needles, I told myself. They wouldn’t let him in here if he didn’t know what he
was doing. I should have relied on my visceral instincts.
He wrapped a rubber tube around my arm and probed my skin with his finger for a while. “Make a fist and clench it,” King said. I did and matched
the action with my sphincter, which was grappling for a good grip on the green
vinyl. I also closed my eyes.
Then he said, “A little pinch.” Needle-man was right. It was only a pinch and
things seemed to be going okay. “Oh no,” he said.
“Oh no?” That was the second set of unfortunate words that I
had heard from a medical professional in the past hour. “Oh no, what?” I questioned.
“I missed.” The weird
eyes looked disappointed. Without missing a beat he lifted his tray of assorted
blood draining tools, needles and vials and placed it on the floor to my
left. That’s correct… on the floor.
“We’ll try the other side,” he said.
“We?”
I kept my composure as I cleared my throat to protest. The door to room one opened again and his
superior stepped in. She was young, but assessed the situation and took charge.
“Don’t put this on the floor, “she said and put the tray on
an adjacent chair. “I’ll take over
here.”
King appeared dejected but had a slight wry grin. He seemed
to be enjoying the events.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This will only take another moment.”
She wrapped the tubing around my left arm and said, “Clench your fist and hold
it.” Little did she know everything about me had been firmly clenched for the
last ten minutes. “Okay, a little pinch.”
“That’s what he said,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” I
should have known better than to be winding up someone who was inserting a
sharp object in my vein. King Voodoo now
stood with his graffitied arms defiantly folded across his chest. He
grinned. I think he had a gold front
tooth.
“Oh no,” she said. Before I could say “that’s what he said”,
those freaky tikki-torch eyes shot lightning bolts around the room. “Oh no,
what? I said as I ducked his laser beams.
“I missed,” she said.
“…You, too?”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Gahan, have you ever had
blood drawn from your hand?”
“No, and I never will,” I said as I simultaneously
unclenched everything and undid the rubber tourniquet. I could have sworn a strange luminosity
washed over her face. Without movement
of her own, or a breeze, her hair swayed. Moon glow filled her eyes. I was certain about that.
I’m also sure, at that very moment, somewhere in the world
(likely on a tropical island), there was a group gathered around a fire
chanting, moaning and swaying without the benefit of a breeze… I’m positive
they were sticking pins in a tall male doll with a receding hairline and a
heavily bandaged left foot.
I did go for the tests my doctor ordered at the lab
that I've always gone to. As I rolled up
a sleeve I began to explain to the attending blood-tech what had happened. She
rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I want to know,” she said. The cheerful technician was
swift and merciful. I told her she was a
rock star. She laughed. “Sometimes
there’s just no substitute for hands-on experience,” she said. I was in and out in five minutes. There was
only one new hole in my arm. The test results came back normal; thank you for
asking.
What about the x-rays, you say? That’s a story for another
time.
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