Officially it was a staph infection, although others have speculated that, based on the pictures, it was necrotizing fasciitis. Regardless, as Jaren and everyone else is quick to remind him, STEVE BROUGHT THIS ON HIMSELF.
It started simply, just a mosquito bite on the calf. But then he picked the scab. And picked it again. Hey why not a third time. Eventually, a white ring formed around the wound, and only at the site of puss did he bother to care for it properly with disinfectant and bandages. Just a mosquito bite, right?
Wrong. As it so happens a month earlier a similar chain of events led to a few local infections on Steve's heels and we're cared for in a similarly slapdash matter. But with all this bacteria running around below his knees, something had to give with the latest bite.
So about 3 days after the sign of infection in the mosquito bite on the calf, another weird white bump appeared about 1/2 inch above the offending bite. Thinking nothing of it Steve let it be. But then it grew and grew some more and some two days later it started to ooze a little, so Steve covered it thinking nothing of it. But it grew and grew and oozed and oozed, and then the area around it started to turn red and hot and it hurt. Being the super responsible individual that he is, Steve put a clean gauze and neosporin on it, wrapped it in an ace bandage and went to bed.
Well, Friday morning rolls around and the throbbing in his leg got to be such that there would be no more sleeping. Not wanting to wake Jaren, he stepped outside into the back area and unwrapped the bandage and lo and behold a maroon welt the size of a golf ball with a little white head like zit staring back at him. But wait, there's more. After 5 seconds the little white head erupted -- seriously erupted -- and what can only be described as a maynoaise/ketchup looking combination was POURING out of his leg under its own pressure. And pouring is not an exaggeration, as Jaren was made aware of the situation while in bed she heard the first burst splat on the ground and Steve mutter "oh sh*t" in a seriously worried tone she'd never heard out of him before. When all was said and done roughly half a liquid cup had exited forcefully and with no additional pressure.
From here it was a no brainer - call the Peace Corps doctor in Cotonou and head to Parakou for a visit with the Peace Corps's northern medical officer Dr. Mensah (who in addition to being the trauma specialist chief of surgery is also the head of the Beninese national Petanque association). Steve wrapped the leg back up with some gauze and an ace bandage as Jaren packed up and the two went out to the highway to flag down a car. 50 minutes later we were in Mensah's office where he proceeded to "irrigate the wound" (read: squeeze the hell out of it and dig around inside with some sharp scissors while all manner of hell came out) sans any local anesthesia.
Funny side story - to this point the entire proceeding with Mensah was in French and it was not known how much English he understood. While Mensah was a wonderfully professional doctor, Steve was a terribly amateurish patient and at one particularly painful moment during the irrigation Steve bellowed a terrible expletive (starts with a p, ends with an r, and has igfucke in the middle). Instantly recognizing his offense, he looked back to scan faces and see if he had gotten away with it, and was greeted with a sly, knowing grin on Mensah's face. Guess he speaks pretty good English.
The next three days were spent at the Parakou work station on a steady stream of antibiotics, fruit juice and old episodes of Dr. Who, intermixed with morning trips to Mensah's office for a change of dressing and monitoring. And eventually he got better, but let us never forget the moral of the story, that STEVE HAD NO ONE TO BLAME BUT HIMSELF.
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2 comments:
This was a post from Anonymous Laure.
All I'm going to say is--
1. Glad you are much better
2. Glad you never became a doctor
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