This morning, one week after my back surgery, I went to have the staples in my back removed. In my usual life, I have the staples removed from a copy of a report on festival income generated in the UK, or maybe arts policy in Newfoundland & Labrador. But these days I'm not leading my usual life - it's the life where the staples end up in my body instead of paper. When did my courses in literary theory turn so literal?
A word of caution - some of these images (captured by Das Schmutz, natch), when I took the time to stare at them, made me want to throw up. This is wounded flesh and surgical metal, after all. But if you possess a gag reflex of steel, keep reading. And a big thank you to That Girl, who took us to the clinic and roamed the city with us afterwards.
One of the unexpected bonuses of living where I do is that I had to travel only half a block and around the corner to get from the hospital to my apartment. Easy peasy Portuguesey. The magic land of Stapl-B-Gon, though, where all the staple removal fairies cavort, is a building in the south end of the city with a combination Subway/TCBY through one door and a Domino's Pizza through another. You must choose wisely when you approach. Furthermore, the building is hugged by a Burger King and a Tim Hortons Coffee. Apparently this is also where you go to get fat and die on the sidewalk.
I am waiting with my walker for a call to the back, where the nurse with her remover will tear my staples out:
Pretty nice, huh? Just hanging out in the waiting room and Ahhhhfourinchcrustystapledwoundaaaahh —
Staple removal machine (as sung by The Cult):
If you look carefully - and why would you do such a thing? - you'll see that the nurse started by removing every other staple. The sensation of the removal was like the scratching of a deep, burning itch. It felt like each piece of metal was being flung out of my body.
The nurse was mighty obliging, and even shifted position to allow Schmutzie access to my gross, disgusting wound.
Lost little staples, like poisoned birds littering the beach.
And now, even though this sort of thing is what the internet is for, let us never look at this entry again.