Spider - Get. Rid. Of!
Veterans of this journal are well aware that I can be rather gross. This tends to happen Upon Me moreso than Due To Me, but I will admit a certain glee when dealing with (and relating to) such flesh-born travesties. Some of you may think back fondly to a time when a spider did crawl from the crevice previous habited by a tenacious wart on my finger. Others may recall with a gag reflex nostalgia the large, shiny lump found on the inner lip of my typically unexplored labia, and upon further probing - like Bishop poised tentatively, scalpel in hand, above the recently deceased undercarriage of a facehugger - came bursting forth a torrent of pus not unlike the consistency of carton custard, and the shock that ensued of my very first genital-based ingrown hair.
You canny viewers noted that what had bitten me on the side on Mother's Day a week ago was, indeed, a spider bite. Now the time has come to tally forth with me on a journey of mystery, wonder, and gushing bodily fluids. This is so very not for the faint hearted...
This is what a rock star's sexyhands look like up against a burgeoning monstrosity of toxins and wickedness. Looksee how pale I am against his hands - yessir, I'm the world's most white Australian. Anyhoo, 2 days after The Bite; the pain is rather intense - so much so that even light fabric made me wince - and we're both growing more concerned as it increases in size, redness and heat. Also, check out my bitchin' stretch mark.
Cut to; Cleveland. I can't even begin to express due relief that my injury occurred just before I would be in the vicinity of my very bestest friend. Not least is she most whoresome in her own right, she is renowned for being an avid squeezer and cast-iron purveyor of all things Gross. She of the passion and ability, the back-yard-back-alley wartime nurse with the unblinking eye and drive to Get Things Out. By the time I blessedly reached her willing grasp, The Bite was swinging ripe from the branch and taunting those with less steely resolve.
Here we have it, a festering mound of hot hot toxin, ready for the excavating. Despite being me (ie: gross), I am also somewhat puss, so the fear crept in on me as I considered the pain of such a surgery. Keep in mind that even to lightly brush it brought a fair amount of ouchiness, and this tight little bundle was not only in an awkward spot (on the fatty love handle of my person), but hard like a rock due to all that insulted flesh. I swiftly downed two large shots of Peppermint Schnapps (I would have gone for gin, but it was the middle of the day and I was afraid I'd pass out. Yes, I'm a puss...), and waited for the warmth to overtake me. Mars was not quite so patient;
I would like to alert you all to the fact that these images come via Squeeze #5. According to Mars, the first squeeze "gushed like a torrent", and my stalwart comrade felt bile rising and somewhat light-headed by the first 4 offerings. Other comments relating to the first few excavations were; "it was like squeezing out a river of mustard and ketchup", and apparently what was released could have "filled a large shot glass". If you (choose to) look closely, you will see a spot of 'fresh' blood, which gives you a good idea of how utterly toxic and dead the other blood is. Determinedly - and with great heroism - she continued, and the results are the images you see above (when she was finally able to hold the camera steady).
Around 10 squeezes later, Mars determined that she'd emptied the pouch of toxins, and that we'd call it a day. Above you see my deflated mound, and some of the residue caught on one of a large handful of paper towels. The wound was disinfected and left to air out.
The following day, I felt a wetness against my side, and once more I bleated for Mars' assistance. She again had a red hot go at it, releasing yet another barrage of ugly fluids from my swollen hump. Bless. Now, today, 4 days later, I'm still seeping small pockets of pus and blood, but I believe I'm on the mend. I dedicate this post to my husband - whom despite being a little leery of All Things Vile tended to me in my early days, and did not once pull the "Eww!" face at my dilemma - and to Mars, the best friend a girl could have, and pretty much the only person I know who would, could and did relieve me of my malaise.
ETA: Seems my husband thought he might have a Sympathy Pimple in the exact same spot on his person as where my own bite was. However, over the following days, it started to develop into something rather like mine, only on a smaller scale. I/we've concluded that he was bitten by the very same spider (I did find and squish a small, angry-looking brown spider that was prancing about menacingly in the car just after Mother's Day, and just before I went to Cleves), but that either a) it has already injected me with 90% of its current supply of toxin, or b) my skin is just far more sensitive, and therefore more reactionary. Wade did manage to squeeze and tend to his own little mound, but he wasn't very happy about it. We're both healing nicely, thank you very much.
This is the first of 3 Cleveland posts. I promise the remaining posts are nowhere near as nasty.