“How do you handle pain?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Um, I guess pretty good,” was really the only response I could muster. I’ve had an open wound on my arm for over a week and am just now getting to the doctor about it, so I assume I’ve tolerated a fair amount.

“Okay, I’m going to take this and probe the wound to see how deep it is.”

“Um, okay?”

“I’m just going to stick this Q-tip into the wound to see what we’re working with.”

I suppose he interpreted my response to mean that I didn’t understand what he was attempting. Oh, I understood. I understood all too well. He slid his stool closer and unwrapped the Q-tip. This was no ordinary Q-tip. I’ve seen Q-tips. They’re like 4 inches long. This was about 10 inches long, with a wood base and a thick cotton…well, tip. It was a Q-tip but on steroids.

With only a moment in which I could do nothing but look away, he stuck it right into the wound. apparently he wasn’t satisfied with the lack of depth because he proceeded to swirl the instrument around, creating the sensation that he was ripping the existing wound open. He went deeper. As he poked and prodded what was an already open and bleeding wound, I instinctively clasped my shirt sleeve and pulled, an act that my body must have thought would help since my brain could focus on nothing but the pain and not urinating. After what felt like several minutes, he withdrew his instrument of torture and showed it to me.

“This is how deep it is,” he said half smiling while he pointed to the bloodied end of the Q-tip, which painted the cotton and extended a half-inch up the wooden stem. “What it is is an abscess. I originally thought it went straight down into the muscle, but after some digging, I realized it was at an angle.” He stared at the stick as though he had just performed a party-trick. A look of satisfaction showed on his face as though he was an amateur magician that had just pulled a quarter from behind my ear.

“Oh, thanks,” I muttered. My brain was clearly not working accurately as what I had intended to say was something to the effect of, “What the fuck, psycho?”

He turned to make some notes in my chart, and the room was suddenly hot. Pain radiated from the now more-open wound, and I was beginning to sweat as I struggled to keep my breath. I sat trying to convince myself to breath slowly and get my wits about me, but it only got worse.

“I’m actually starting to feel a little lightheaded to be honest,” I admitted.

He turned his head and offered semi-dismissively, “Just lay down. Your blood pressure is probably just dipping a little.”

I followed his recommendation and felt instantly better. I stayed there while he returned to the table and cleaned the injury, which was now spouting more blood than before. It was at that time that he thought it prudent to utter the following statement while failing to contain a chuckle: “I suppose you don’t handle pain as well as you thought.”

Apparently my brain had an opportunity to recover as my response came without hesitation. “No, it’s just that your last patient assured me you’d lube up before sticking something that long in someone.”

It came out before I even had a moment to think. He let out an uncomfortable laugh and finished up quickly. Needless to say, he didn’t write a note for me to take to work.