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At the tender age of 16, I had some serious chest pains and had to be admitted to the hospital for what they initially thought was Lymphoma, a type of lung cancer. To find out, they first decided to do a thorocoscopy. Or, in layman's terms, a camera on a tube, shoved up my nose and down my trachea. This consisted of doping me up really well with codeine (but not knocking me out, mind you. I could still hear and feel EVERYTHING, it just felt like it was happening about a mile away from my consciousness), and taking a toothpaste tube of KY and squeezing it in its entirety up inside my sinus passage. Oh my, I can't begin to describe how pleasant THAT isn't. Not painful by any stretch, but quite possibly the grossest, squishiest feeling I'd ever felt. Then they took a fiberoptic camera tube about as big around as a pinky finger and threaded it up my nose, down my throat, into my lungs. Again, not painful at all, just REALLY awkward and uncomfortable. The procedure took an hour or so.

In the end, it proved fairly inconclusive. They found out it wasn't cancer, but they couldn't figure out what it WAS. So they scheduled a thorocotomy. As some of you may know, "-otomy" means "taking shit out of you". Not the whole lung, mind you...they had to take out a sliver of my lung and send it to the lab for testing. A pretty damn involved, invasive biopsy, mind you, but they said it was necessary. So two days before my 17th birthday, I was admitted into Toledo Hospital and knocked unconscious. I vaguely recall lying on the ER table waiting for the drugs to kick in, telling them not to be copping a cheap glimpse at my penis, before plummetting into oblivion.

The next week's events were fairly crappy, but nothing too exciting. I awoke in the ICU, couldn't hold down so much as water, let alone the jello they tried feeding me. I recall my entire chest being a barrel of pain, and puking water all over myself. They had to move me into a wheelchair while they changed the bed, and I remember shrieking in pain. As I got out of ICU, they had to change my bandages every few hours, which hurt like hell, so they gave me morphine. They ODed me so bad I hallucinated for 48 hours straight. THAT was fun. Oh, and let me tell you, having a catheter pulled out feels a whole lot like what I would imagine pissing hot butter would feel like! And doubly embarassing when the pain makes your junk shrivel, and the nurse yanking the cath out was a fat gay guy who felt the need to make condescending "just between you and me" remarks. Oy vey.

Don't worry, this is all backstory...we'll get to the gross part.

So after a little over a week, they decide that I'm well enough to go home. I'm in a lot of pain and can barely move, but I HATED being there, so I was excited. They pay no mind to the fact that my surgery wound, though sewn up, smelled like rotting ass, and was swollen to a grotesque size. It honestly was so large that it looked like someone had inserted a twinkie under my flesh. I couldn't put my arm all the way down (the "exit wound" was about 8 inches below my right underarm). But being excited to go home, I just wrote it off as swelling from inflammation, and limped my ass to the car.

We get home and my mother has set up a bed downstairs in the living room for me, so that I don't have to climb the stairs to my bedroom. Exhausted, I fall face-first onto the mattress and pass the hell out for about 8 hours. When I wake up, it's fairly early evening, and I notice the rotten ass smell has grown. There is now a wet spot on my shirt, and a corresponding wet spot on the bed. It's fairly yellowish, and we all know what that means. I run (okay, slowly limp at a rate of 10 feet per hour...but in my mind, I was hurrying!) to my mother and tell her, and she notices the ass-funk coming from my chest. She immediately calls the hospital and talks to my doctor, who tells her that a little infection is normal, and I should take a hot shower to help it.

I get my stinky ass in the shower, revelling in the idea that for the first time since the surgery, I'm going to be CLEAN! And the ass-funk is going to go away, and the swelling will go away, and everything will be great, right? That's when I look down. The water pooling around my feet isn't clear like it should be...it's red and cloudy-yellow. I hold my hand to my side, and find that pus is flowing out of me like my chest is a tapped keg. The doc said this was normal, so despite my fears, I let it flow and kept showering. Eventually the flow seemed to stop, and the twinkie-sized lump was slightly smaller. I get out of the shower and dry off, and realize that this has been the most exhausting exertion of effort I've had since the surgery, and I need to pass the fuck back out. I limp downstairs, say goodnight to mom, and curl up in my bed.

Around midnight, I wake up with excruciating pain lancing through my right side, because I had apparently rolled onto my side in my sleep. And even worse, I can feel my entire body, from neck to knees, is sopping wet. And something fucking REEKS. Unfortunately, it's dark in the room and there is no light in arm's reach. I yell for my mother, who comes racing down the stairs and flips the light switch on. She IMMEDIATELY races into the bathroom and begins to dryheave, as I look down at my bed. I am literally laying in a half-inch deep pool of bloody pus. The "twinkie" is more or less gone. The stitches are ripped out along part of the wound. And I am completely coated in this bloody pus.

I think the surreality of the scene in my mind was the only thing that kept me from getting sick. It was like my mind wouldn't wrap around it, and instead I just kinda sat there and looked at myself quizically, saying "Huh..." We call the doctor, get me rinsed off, and get my ass back in the hospital ASAP. They end up putting me in a VERY nice suite room on the cardiac floor, with a TV with cable and any access to a VCR that I want, so that we didn't sue the fuck out of them for malpractice. It ended up taking them almost 24 hours to completely staunch the flow of pus coming out of my body. Turns out the infection had spread all across the right side of my chest. Hell, to this day my right nipple has no sensation in it. They ended up spreading the wound open with gauze, cleaning it out and changing the gauze every 8 hours.



I ended up staying hospitalized for a month, but it took 4 months for the wound to completely close. At home, mom still had to change my gauze and clean the wound every 12 hours, as we couldn't afford an in-home nurse. But she had a job, and couldn't always be home to change my bandages. So what does she do? She calls my best friend Aaron and asks him if he could in any way stomach cleaning out such a gaping wound. Far from disgusted, he JUMPED at the chance. And thus, each day he would come over after school and help me change the gauze. Unfortunately, this was an opportunity he could not pass up. After all, how often do your friends have holes in their chest that are down to the bone, without causing them too much pain? And on top of that, how often do you get to play with it? I'll never forget him poking a glove-clad finger at my exposed rib, EVERY DAY, giggling like a mad scientist, asking repeatedly "Wow, you can't feel that? Can you feel this? How bout this? WOW this is so cool!" I could have killed hi

Hope this is gross enough to make the list!

~Tom

credit given to original author if known

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