I would like to blame this perverse obsession on my days of nursing classes, but it started long before then.

For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with exploring, lancing and draining infected wounds. I. Love. It.

At the first signs of a boil, impacted infection or festering injury, I will whip out my scalpel and starting draining, squeezing, disinfecting and bandaging. This is often occupanied with cries of pain and agony, but I manage to talk people through it. Explain exactly what I am doing and how it will help them, whether I am telling the truth or not, they usually believe me.

When they whine, I tell them to hush, or simply shove something in their mouth. There is not time for quibbling! This is for your own good! Besides, most of pain is mental.

Right.

Until Porkchop has her own infected finger. That she cannot bend. That is swollen and horrible. That is giving her great pain. Then, pain suddenly becomes excruciatingly important. Suddenly all my mental-pain-mantra's come flooding back to me and I want to cut the offending appendage OFF.


Percocet, anyone?