Getting ink done

Once in a great while – not often, mind you – I like to step away from talking about my trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the face of extreme adversity. You know, that whole goddess thing I have going on. And I do so when it behooves me to write about things that my people might find useful, like the cancer shit and all. And then some people wind up thinking – “honey, TMI, okay? Love ya, but really, girlfriend.” To which I say: suck it.

All of which brings me to today’s topic: tattoos. Or more specifically, nipple tattoos. (See, I warned you guys.) Which as you can imagine, is one of those things fraught with apprehension for the nipple-challenged among us, as we think – WTF? Really? Isn’t that going to be, you know, PAINFUL?

An appointment was made, and off I went to the office of Dr. Fine, where I was actually going to meet with Michelle, aka PA to the Stars. Things start off as usual, with Michelle explaining the procedure.

Michelle:……..so after we pick out the right color, I’ll trace the shape that….

Me: Can we do it in any shape? Like, a flower or something fun?

Michelle: I only do circles. Dr. Fine once did a star, but only agreed to it if it could later be made into a circle if need be.

Hmm. Okay, never mind that idea then.

So we’re chit-chatting as Michelle is getting all the stuff ready.

Me: So does Grey’s Anatomy drive you crazy, with all the stuff they get wrong or take liberties with? You know, all the things that us mere mortals would have no idea about?

Michelle: Oh, I can’t even watch that show anymore, it’s so bad.

Me: Ha, so you mean everyone isn’t always getting it on in a broom closet?

Michelle: Well, actually….

Me: No!

Michelle: I guess there is a certain contingent like that, though it’s not common.

Me: Okay then. So, umm (changing the topic)…..do you read any nurses’ blogs?

Michelle is silent for a moment. As soon as I’ve spoken, I’m kicking myself. Shit, now she thinks I think she’s a nurse, which I know she’s not. But now I sound like a dumbass. Geez, why don’t I just pitch everyone into the same category, call them all “technicians” or something?

Michelle: No, can’t say I do. Though I wonder if there are any Physician’s Assistant blogs out there.

Me, scrambling to cover my tracks: Oh, I’m sure there are. Especially since there are doctors’ blogs, ER blogs, you name it.

Me, continuing, hopefully: So do I at least get any good drugs after this? Dilaudid? Whatever that is, it's big in the nursing blogs. Oxycontin? There's bound to be a LOT of pain after this, and I'm kind of a wimp.

Michelle, not moved: Tylenol.

Shit. Let’s face it, I’m still screwed – I’ve just inadvertently pissed off the person about to do my tattoo. Great.

After we get the color matched, Michelle starts injecting a local anesthetic under the fipple, which leads to this kind of dialogue when it hits a nerve or something:

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry. I know I’m the problem patient as always.

Michelle, deadpan: Oh, absolutely. Such a problem.

Me: AHHHHHHHhhhhhh! Sorry…..

And so on. But finally that torturous part is over, and the tattooing begins! Except….

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry….

Michelle: That shouldn’t hurt. Are you sure it’s pain and not pressure?

Me: It’s definitely pain. AHHhhhh! Sorry….

This continues. The part where the lat flap skin is has no feeling, so that doesn’t hurt. But as soon as it gets to the rest, yep, pain. Definitely pain.

Michelle: Really, pain? Not pressure?

See, I’m thinking this is where I’m paying for my “nurse” remark. I’m obviously an idiot, so everything I say is suspect.

Me: Sigh, it’s pain. But maybe I can just grit my teeth and suck it up?

Michelle: Well, generally with all the surgeries, there are nerves left only on the top, which is where we apply the anesthetic. The ones that run underneath have been cut.

Me: I guess I’m a special case. A freak of nature. It’s a gift.

Michelle, pondering: “Special,” hmm…….oh, where was I? So in any case, sometimes the nerves are still there, so I’ll do the anesthesia deeper.

The needle again, then more tattooing, but this time we’re in business. Pressure, no pain. Whew.

Finally we’re done, and we bandage that puppy up, and I get instructions for the care and feeding of tattoos. Then off to the hallway, where I’m greeted by the other Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, Dr. Schierle.

Me: Hey, your office is a frontrunner in the Pinkapalooza contest! We here at thethighmasterroutetokona really like free stuff.

Dr. Schierle: Outstanding!

Me, adding: And we’re going to wear our glowsticks to the Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night game!

Barb: The….what?

Dr. Schierle: The…..how’s that again?

Me: Really, that’s what they call it. Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness. I know….but we have to remember, they’re hockey players.

Barb: Ah, good point.

Dr. Schierle: Well here, let me heap more of these glowsticks on you to take to the game!

These people clearly understand me. Clearly.

Dr. Schierle: That’ll keep us in first place, right?

Me: Well, it should. The problem is that there’s some truly scary Pinkishness stuff out there.

Dr. S.: How about having different categories? Like say…..a Hall of Fame? And a Hall of Shame!

Me, gaping at Dr. S.: Why…..that’s brilliant! I love it! I’m going to steal that idea and call it my own. But you guys will still be in the running for a hat.

Dr. S.: Excellent!

And so it has been spoken, and so it shall be done. Though in addition to the above categories, I’m also adding one called the Hall of WTF – for those entries that are neither way cool, nor way offensive, but just…..puzzling. To the extreme. In a “Huh? What the hell were they thinking” kind of way.

Oh yes, there are plenty of those out there too, trust me…..

Oh, and as for that tattoo? Yeah, it hurts like a sonofabitch, even now, days later. Still oozing, bleeding, makes it hard to drive because of the damn seat belt going over my chest. But you know, in the grand scheme of things as far as SurgeryLand and TreatmentWorld are concerned, it’s not that big a deal. My recommendation: drink early, drink often. I suggest shots of the Bloody Fipple (credit to Kim, who thought this one up, or at least something very similar):: pomegranate juice, flavored vodka, splash of amaretto. Bottoms up!

How the hell do they do it?

Once in a great while I like to pull myself away from the humor, wisdom, and pathos that is my own little blog, and check out what else is out there in BlogLand.

Generally I come scurrying back here in fear, as what’s out there can be truly frightening in so many ways. Hello, punctuation and grammar? America is looking for you!

But sometimes I, like any mere mortal, get sucked into a different world, and then find myself in an endless loop of blogs within that genre. Like now. Where I’m fascinated by nursing blogs. Especially the ones that have entertaining or poignant or scary stories about their patients. And some are mind-boggling…..but not in a good way.

And here, dear fifteens of readers, is where these nurses and I part ways. Because if I had patients in my ER who:

1) Came in faking pain so they could get narcotics, and do this every few days;

2) Come in for the sniffles or a paper cut and demand to be seen right away;

3) Call me all sorts of nasty things and demand lunch, coffee, water for their 16 ho-bag friends; or

4) Come in with the same problems every week, because they refuse to take care of themselves in even the most basic of ways…..

……I wouldn’t be able to treat them. My head would explode. You wanna call me a honky bitch and demand narcotics for your made-up pain? Uh, right. You get nothing, and you’ll sit there for 10 hours getting nothing. Apparently, the ER is Command Central for every POS scumbag dreg of society, who thinks nothing of using said ER as a waystation for anything and everything. Hey, I need my drug fix! Why don’t I go to the hospital and take precious time and resources away from the few people who actually need them?

So that’s the cynical and bitchy side of me.

Then there’s the logical side. And here I part ways as well.

Because if I had a 94-year-old demented, incontinent, brain-damaged husk of a person who will never have any kind of life that’s not hooked up to ventilators, and who will never regain consciousness, much less sit up in bed asking for a Coke, so to speak – and yet the family wants all measures taken to keep this husk of a person alive……well, I couldn’t do that either. God’s will? Right. According to God, that person would have been dead a long time ago, and it’s only man’s machines that are keeping them alive. Doing chest compressions and all these other heroic measures just because the family doesn’t have the guts to do the right thing? Nope. Again, the head-exploding thing.

This is why I think nurses are so kick-ass, for being able to do what they do. And not because it must be pretty damn hard to deal with death and dying and shattered lives on a regular basis, like every day, but because of all the other stuff. The insanity of it all. The illogic. The rage I’d feel in having to try and help people who are basically a blot on society. Yeah, no, not gonna happen. I’d be Nurse Ratched. On steroids.

And if I for whatever reason ever wind up drooling and stupid in a hospital bed, unable to read or write (2 key things in my book), for god’s sake, someone pull the damn plug already. Even if you have to “accidentally” kick it out of its socket and distract doctors by doing some enfeebled magic tricks that are awesome in their badness. Please, just do what needs to be done. Thank you.

And all you nurses out there? Yeah, you guys rock. Big time. Thanks for dealing with all this shit so the rest of us don’t have to. I am in awe.