Sore Thumb

I have had a sore thumb for the past week. You know when somewhere in the back of your mind it registers something is wrong when you go to do just normal things but you don’t really fully think about it until sometime later. That’s what my thumb has been like.

“Ouch. Oh?”

My thumb has been getting sorer and sorer and sorer and now I can’t even push the buttons on my mobile phone with it, or turn a door handle, or turn a tap off tight, pull on my socks, or do up the fly in your pants, or open a fucken zip lock bag. It is not until you can’t, of course, that you realise all the things you do with your thumb. Its mind blowing, such an ordinary appendage. Well, I guess it’s not mind blowing, as such, but try living without it?

I’m nervous about an infection, as years ago I ended up in St Vincent’s hospital for a week on intravenous antibiotics when a skin tear on my elbow that I didn’t take much notice of ended up infecting my whole arm. My elbow was reminiscent of a baboon’s arse which stretched nearly to my shoulder and nearly to my wrist quickly after only about three days. And the last place I want to end up is in emergency at Xmas when the Omicron variant is swirling in the community. Emergency looks something like Night of The Living Dead when there is no pandemic.

So, I call up The Clinic at 9am and I get an appointment at 11.30am with my own doctor, which is unheard of now a days. I reckon I must have just lucked in calling up at opening time when cancelled appointments are available.

It is hot and sunny already this morning. I am contemplating taking my bike to the doctor, because I am trying to ride my bike everywhere I can, (for health reasons and for environmental reasons) but I don’t know, it is quite a hot morning, but I think once I get going in my t-shirt and shorts I think the air will probably cooling, lovely even. That is the idea, any way.

11.11am. I leave for the doctor. I ride my bike. The air is not cool, in fact, it is hot and quite unpleasant when huge gusts of filthy wind blow through the Edinburgh Gardens and straight into my eyes.

It is always nice to see [name of doctor]. We discuss my recent blood test (which I had forgotten about) and my elevated cholesterol and sugar levels and decide that I should go on cholesterol tablets, Lipitor, (Yay) which he says they should just put in the water.

“Could you imagine the protests,” he says.

“The conspiracy theories would be rife,” I say.

I get a couple of scripts.

He signs both so I can get the whole lot dispensed at once. (I’m lazy and forgetful and the less trips to the chemist the better, I say) He says that pharmacists are one of the most protected professions and the reason they don’t want to dispense the entire script is because if they do it over 6 months they can charge 6 dispensing fees. 

So, it is just money. Fuckers, I think.

Apparently, I have an infected quick on the thumb on my left hand. Apparently, what I have to do is soak it in salt water at night when I am, say, watching the cricket. (I remember my doc is straight with these kinds of comments.) It should form a puss head in the corner of my nail and burst. He gives me a script for antibiotics just in case if it flares up during Xmas, after I tell him my fears of mixing with the living dead.

“Only use it if you have to,” he says. “The salt water should do the trick.”

So, I have been soaking my thumb in salt water, I think, it is supposed to draw the infection out, which I’ll be able to squeeze. It is drawing something out, I can feel it. It’s hard work, though. And slow. I’ve tried to squeeze it a little and it really fucken hurts. Brings tears to my eyes.

 

PS. You can't peel a mandarin with a sore thumb, (even if they are starting to get a bit iffy this time of year) and I am a mandarin fiend.