Because he asked, “Do you trust me?”

 

“It’s infected” my husband declared, as he squinted over my knee.

“It’s an ingrown hair or something.  It should totally fix itself” I said.

“It’s getting bigger…”

“I know.  Why is it getting bigger?”

“… and whiter… or pale yellow…”

I leaned back a little further on the edge of the bed and propped myself up on my elbows.  My belly swelled with it’s nine month gestation, and my back ached.  I started to pull my leg out from his grasp to get more comfortable.

“Wait.  I’m not done evaluating.”

“What more can you evaluate?” I asked.  “You’re not a doctor.”

“Then you should see a doctor about it” he emphatically replied.  “We don’t want anything getting infected while you are pregnant.”

“I showed the doctor” I said with an eye roll.  “She told me just to keep putting antibiotic cream on it along with a band-aid.”

He stood up, exasperated.  “She’s your OB!  What does she care about your knee?”

I threw my head back and let out the whiniest sigh I could muster.  “Haaaaaaaaaaugh.  Well I don’t have another doctor… I’m tired…and uncomfortable… I’m not searching for another doctor just for this little thing on my knee.”

“Well, we’ve got to get the puss out” he said, heading into the bathroom.

“What do you mean?”

He returned with a razor blade… and looking serious.

“Whoa.  No way.  That’s not going to happen”  I said, as I scooted backwards on the bed.

“We’ve gotta lance it.”

I shook my head.  “I think we should let it just pulse away until it pops on it’s own.”

“What if it just get’s bigger and starts to spread up your leg?”

“I don’t see how that’s much worse than letting my untrained husband take a razor blade to it.”

“I’m just going to slice a teeny hole in it,” he said calmly as he wiped down the blade with alcohol.  “It’s just like when you pop a blister and drain it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Are you going to find a doctor?” he asked.

“No.”

“You won’t feel it.  It’s not that big a deal” he said as he pulled my leg toward him.

I tensed and started to pull it back.

“If you let it get bigger it’s probably going to scar.”

I eyed him skeptically.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“What kind of question is that?” I barked.  “Do I trust you to be a good husband? Yes. Do I trust you with our soon to be born baby? Yes. Do I trust your lancing technique? Not so sure.”

He looked me in the eyes.  “Let’s not make this a huge thing.  The bigger this puss bubble gets, the more skin surface is affected, and the greater your chance of having a scar.  Now, DO YOU TRUST ME?”

I sighed…

I nodded…

and I closed my eyes…

 

And that is how (years ago) I ended up with this gorgeous, circular, white scar on my right knee.

 

 

Nothing says I love you like an agreed upon lancing…

 

Bastard.

 

 

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