“Well let’s see what’s going on” the doctor says. She is older than I am, likely in her 50’s and warm. The fluorescent lights brighten the windowless room.
My dad is quiet in the chair to the side while I sit on the exam table, my legs dangling beneath me like a kid on the bars at school. In a t-shirt and sweats, I look like I’m hanging out. I look like I’m fine. I wonder if the doctor thinks, “She’s 36, why is her dad here?”
“Well…” I hesitate. Then I scoot back so my legs are straight in front of me and I carefully pull both of the pant legs of my thick cotton sweats up to my knees.
“Oh my.” She says. I’m not sure if this is what doctors are supposed to say, but I appreciate her honesty. I am glad she doesn’t hide her shock like other doctors might. Her oh my validates what’s happening. It gives me a little doctor street cred.
It acknowledges I am not imagining how hideous this is.
From the knees down, my legs have 20 boils all over them. Each one to two inches in diameter and easily ½ an inch off of the skin. They are full, deep red and raw from the blood beneath the surface and they hurt like hell.
When I start to cry around her later from the cumulative stress of the past 7 days of this, she comes over to my side and hugs me.