She said...

Okay, Elise here, a.k.a. Shug (only to Pat) and The Boss to everyone else.

Let me tell my version of Pat’s pit problem. Last week, Pat ran out of deodorant. He claims he told me several times that he was out, meaning I had to buy him some more. Now, Pat’s a big boy, right? He has a debit card in his wallet, what’s stopping him from going to the store and buying his own darn deodorant, one may ask. Well, I homeschool our children, as well as organize and conduct classes for the children of 7 other families. I am mom, teacher, principal, secretary, librarian, janitor, and school nurse from 8-2:30 Monday through Thursday, and half-day on Friday. Going to the store for anything (finding the time, organizing someone to keep the kids, etc) is a strategic event that takes days to plan. Again I ask, what was stopping him from getting his own deodorant? It would take him 10 minutes, me 10 days! Twice he used my deo. Perhaps I should preface Pat’s particular pit problem by explaining that he has had mild allergic reactions in the past, and we’ve learned there is one kind of one brand only that he can use with no reaction.
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Anyway, a few days after using my deodorant, he gets a little red. A kind of blister forms in his arm pit, and I lovingly (laughingly) applied some anti-itch ointment to it. Men can’t take pain, I might add, and the burning he claims to have suffered after the application of this ointment was enough to grip sheets, grind teeth, and squirm for 5 minutes. Big baby. The next day I comment on his numerous baths – and the fact that he has gone through a bottle of bleach and a bottle of vinegar and my house stinks. Not to mention water in Magnolia is like a dollar a drop (long story about re-piping the town, engineering screw ups, inflated water bills for people in the city limits, etc) and we ration water as if we live in a desert 3rd world country. When, on the third day, his baths came at hour intervals, I knew I needed to intervene.
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“Pat, show me your arm pits.” He was lying on the bed, his knees crooked over the footboard, arms flung over his head, draped in a towel having just come out of the bath. He removed the towel.
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“Oh, hell, you need to see a doctor!”
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What had been a little pink rash had spread from his nipples to his shoulder blades, and from the inside of his elbows laterally to his midsection. The pink of it was raised and swollen, so puffy his shirt-sleeves were tight. When he stood it looked like he needed a man bra. He’d come home early from work (usually a bad sign – he knows better than to come home unless he’s worked his full hours. We’re poor! I knew it had to be serious if he’d chance my nagging him about coming home early) and claimed the rash was now seeping.
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“What could it be seeping?” I asked.
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He replied with some medical mumbo-babble that I can’t pronounce, much less spell, so I gave him directions and permission for going to the doctor first thing in the morning.
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I called him at 9:30 this morning to see what the doctor said. Instead of being able to go to StatCare after getting his ducks in a row, he was still at work. His one nurse had called in sick with the pink eye, and his other assistant is 10 months pregnant. He couldn’t conceivably leave her there alone with patients, so he was suffering in silence.
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He finally got to go at lunch, and later told me the doctor, upon first seeing it, backed away calling for the number for the CDC in Atlanta. A tech in a HAZMAT suit took some blood, only to discover his white blood cells were okay in number, and he had some contact dermatitis which has caused cellulitis. He didn’t need House, he needed J.D. and Janitor!

Two shots and a gallon of antibiotics later (and a shot or two of whiskey) his swelling is much decreased, my water bill is stabilizing, and hopefully soon he’ll stop walking like a sissy with his hands propped on his hips.