Poppin big green antibiotic pills and guzzlin kefir over here!
I got a hot, raised, red infection in my arm instantly after all the manual labor this week, evidence of my delicacy (I used to while away childhood hours imagining I'd been born a British princess). Tuesday, after returning the tidily-swept truck, I showered, diligently soaping and scrubbing the dump-dirt away. Mark and I had consulted each other a few times on the date of our last Tetanus shots ("We're up to date on Tetanus, right?" "Uh, we must be. I think."). I disinfected all the scratches and scrapes on my (tender) forearms too, even applying antibiotic ointment and Bandaids. It was hot, but I wore long sleeves to dinner because my arms looked so bad I was afraid I'd trigger someone.
And yet, I knew yesterday that one scratch was infected, and I did have cellulitis once, which supposedly means I'm at a higher risk of getting it again. So last night I went to urgent care, a little apologetic about the mere spot of infected skin I was sporting.
The first nurse spoke so softly, it seemed like she was deliberately making it hard for me to hear her. "Have you ever used chewing tobacco are you safe at home," she whispered.
I hate the idea of taking antibiotics. Every time I do, I think I'm one step closer to MRSA.*
*don't Google that