While I wasn't exactly the meanest bull dog in the pit, most of the other boys in the neighborhood would probably agree that I wasn't a cupcake either. Never backing away from a confrontation was a matter of honor, and I earned a universal respect by receiving savage beatings almost everywhere I went. The big issue here was me. I was Irish. (Actually, I still am!)
The neighborhood, in the heart of the great US northeastern megalopolis was culturally diverse, and at the impressionable age of junior high school, I stood out like a sore thumb. At 12 years old most of my classmates had full beards. At least a mustache! Were trim, muscle-bound and dark skinned! They wore form-fitting black tee shirts and after a shower in gym class, they would stand on top of the benches and let the big steel fan in the corner of the locker room dry off the private parts of their naked, matured bodies. I, on the other hand, looked like a balding, powder blue Smirf, desperately struggling with my ankle length underpants while huddled in the corner farthest from the air source.
I always remembered the story my Mother would tell about how she had bathed while wearing a black dress when she was growing up at the Catholic orphanage in Canada. To me, showering with a black dress would only seem to cause more attention, particularly while serving aboard ship in the US Navy. My point to all this, is that I simply dislike being seen naked. And that brings me to my story.
Years later as a young adult with a wonderful wife and two very bright sons, I began to notice a small "pimple" on my abdomen. Because it was in direct alignment behind my belt buckle it began to irritate. Being a responsible, corporate manager, I wore an expensive woolen suit, tie and white shirt each day to work, and my irritated pimple began to hurt.
The more it hurt the more it grew, and between my wife and me (the only one I could ever share this with) we decided it was more than a pimple, it was the beginning of a boil. While the woolen suits certainly didn't help, the real culprit here was the belt buckle. Because I was rather trim, the good Lord somehow forgot to give me hips, or a backside, and the worsted wool trousers would slip down to the same position like I was magnetized, despite several attempt at changing belts and buckles.
To make matters worse, it began to grow, and it began to leak, and it was getting more and more painful. Because of all my beatings as a kid in the neighborhood, I learned to tolerate great amounts of pain. But long ago I learned that a push pin under your fingernail hurts far greater than a broken leg, and this, seemingly minute little boil hurt beyond comprehension. I winced at every step. Avoided turning even when someone would call me. And at lunchtime, I would drive great distances so I could sit on a stool at a counter, rather than having to sit in a booth or chair.
Eventually, this closely guarded secret turned into Mount Hood, complete with tree line, snow cap and all. And like Mount Kilauea, the area surrounding the summit began to grow Day-Glo red, and spread uncontrollably. With my young sons' constant prodding, "What's wrong with Daddy?" my wife "broke".
Now, you'd think I'd get some sympathy. Empathy perhaps! Instead, they broke into hysterical laughter. Coughing! Choking! Crying! Every emotion except compassion! Then, especially knowing me, they said, "Let's see it! Cool!" knowing all the while that wasn't about to ever happen. And for the rest of the week, while Vesuvius continued to erupt, I was subjected to the jokes "Hey, Dad's got a fish hook in his stomach! Little Scotty next door bit Dad in the stomach!"
Finally, I had had enough. I decided there was only enough room on my stomach for one belly button and I needed to get this thing removed, regardless of the shame, the exposure to a total stranger. So we went to the emergency room of the local, small hospital all 5 of us (Clancy, our Golden Retriever was in the car), with perpetual smiles on my boys faces and a look of pity from my caring wife. I kept thinking how silly it was for me to go this long without having this thing taken care of. How silly it was for me to let it get this bad! All because I didn't want to be exposed and "touched" down there.
When the nurse called my name and I was asked to follow her, everyone kissed me goodbye. She led me to a back room with a large table for me to lie on, and she told me, very matter-of-factly to remove my pants, both of them and I could put this sheet over me if I chose. I tried to break the tension by asking if she wanted me to cover my face, but she apparently didn't think anything was very funny.
After I "prepared" myself and waited for about 3 hours, she came back and without any hesitation, she pulled the sheet off me in a flash, where it landed in a pile covering only my feet. I jumped like I was being struck with defibrillator paddles. "WHOA!" she said. "This thing has got to hurt!" I thought my thanking her would at least put a smile on her face, but even that didn't work. She came back in an instant, all businesslike, and sprayed me "down there" with a can of what looked like Polyurethane and told me it would freeze my boil and she would be back with the doctor in about 30 minutes.
Within that 30 minutes the temperature in Northern Connecticut, that particular February evening, must have dropped 20 degrees, and I was laying there naked with everything beginning to freeze thinking maybe they didn't know anything about boils and I was being put into a cryonic state. The doctor suddenly appeared, took one look at my potential gusher and said, "UGHHHH!" poked it with his finger a couple of times just to make sure I had absolutely no feeling below my waste, which didn't make me particularly comfortable, and left.
Then came the gift wrapping! They covered me in white, wedding present paper and cut out only a small portion just above my boil. As far as they were concerned, no one was there. Just a boil! Then, like grease lightening, the doctor pulled out what appeared to be cotter pin pliers from Pep Boys, yelled "AHHHH!" and in one flowing motion, snipped off the top half of Krakatoa, spilling ash, lava and debris straight up toward the ceiling. The abruptness of his actions had me screaming for Jesus and sobbing like a 13 year old school girl. The scene looked like he just slaughtered a lamb on a ritualistic alter at a Mayan circumcision.
It took them 20 minutes to clean up the place, and 40 minutes to pack up the hole with 14 miles of gauze. They put on a small band aid, the kind you would use to cover up a razor nick and told me to visit my doctor in several days to change the "packing".
I thanked them without shaking their hands and left.
As I stepped into the waiting room, there they were, my life, my support, my world! No one was smiling now, and no one said anything until my little guy finally asked, "You OK Dad?" And I answered, "Sure, piece of cake!" and we all went home.
I thought I did a real good job masking my pain in front of my children. My wife however, was a different story. Maybe it was when she found me on the bathroom floor, in the middle of the night, sleeping in the fetal position sucking my thumb.