Burn

As I was complaining about minor shit on fb, a grelka, this hollow rubber vessel one fills with hot water for warmth, burst and sprayed me with hot, just-boiled water.

Life is all about the priorities.  Thus, my first reaction was to save my computer from the water. God knows this keyboard has suffered enough. The second reaction was: holy shit, I am covered in burning liquid! I promptly leaped out of my nighty and my bed, ran to the mirror and saw that half of my face, my neck and my upper body was alarmingly red. Part of my face, on the other hand, seemed that nice blue color of the walking dead hue. Looking like a giant red lobster, I ran out of the room to a computer with a better keyboard and googled further instructions. I kept thinking of that girl in the Girl Interrupted, the one who burned her face after her parents took the puppy away. Anyway, the search engine vomited tons of advices and the giant red lobster dislocated to the bathroom, unwilling to hop into the cold water, as advised by the wise internet. I did put my hands and face under the faucet and took the clean towel, wet it with cold water and put it to various parts of my body, according to the pain signals it sent. I also called and yelled at my hubby to bring me an antiseptic and anti-burn cream.

So, imagine you’re frantic. You rush into the pharmacy and demand antiseptic, anti-burn stuff, quick. And the elderly lady there goes to the back and looks for the medicine forever. And then she comes back with two different tubes of cream and claims that one is antiseptic and one is anti-burn, but you need those two together in one tube, a concept beyond her cognitive abilities. What would you do? Instead of mentioning her mother in a bad way, hubby ran out to the other pharmacy, where another person couldn’t get it that some creams actually carry anti-infection and analgesic effect together, until hubby lost all his patience and explained that when a person with crazy eyes rushes into a pharmacy asking for a burn relief cream, well that means that someone got burned, goddamnit. So move.

He came home after all the pharmacy tours and scared the shit out of me; I was pretty calm before that, planning my own rescue and all. Finally, we went to a center for burn treatment. The wise internet said I couldn’t put clothes on the burn before the doctor dressed the wounds, so I had to wear shirt that is even big for my big-enough hubby, and it kinda looked like a trench coat, which I opened widely, for all the interested medical staff at the hospital and felt like an exhibitionist scaring the kids and old ladies.

The next morning I came back to the hospital, where under all the gauzes a broil size of my breast formed atop of my real breast. I considered the exiting possibility of walking three-breasted, a bit of a bra problem, but the doctors punctured it mercilessly and I will spare you the details.

Anyway, my extremely loyal hubby has been disinfecting and medicating my wound for several days now, and I predict that it would be a long time before he decides to see me naked just for the fun of it. That’s what love is. In about three weeks my skin will return to  its prior state.

Also, I have to wear his shirts now, cause my tops are pretty tight and I can’t stand the touch of a material against my body. I’ve decided to embrace this fashion challenge and pair hubby’s oversized shirts with torn jeans and colorful bandanas. After all, beauty is just skin–deep; in this case, a burned one too.

p.s. gauzes and bandages, my new friends.