It’s the end of summer and to tell you the truth, things got a little boring around here. So we decided to see what all kinds of weird germs our family could get. Diabetes was so last month, and leprosy was unavailable. The best we could come up with was a glowing MRSA infection on Merrick’s tummy.
Gah. MRSA. Don’t even ask me what it stands for because I don’t care and neither should you. And don’t google it either–pictures of MRSA sores are the stoff nightmares are made of.
So let me just give you a quick low-down: staph germs run rampant through the streets and MRSA is everywhere–like, a Wal-Mart shopping cart during flu season type everywhere. Supposedly tons of people have it and carry it around like it ain’t no thang.
Except of course for my kids–if there’s an infectious disease to be had, they’ll get it and develop it to its full potential and rock it, and I’ll feel compelled to buy a crate of bleach and disinfect every crevice of my house. Germ-x, Clorox wipes, alcohol and cotton balls and gauze and hot, hot water for towels and sheets in the laundry–this is how we choose to roll for the rest of the year.
I think the word you are looking for is jealous.
I am only freaking out slightly. About a week ago, Merrick had what looked like an insignificant little bump on his waist–it looked like nothing important at all. If anything I thought maybe the bump was an ant bite or an irritated dot of skin from wearing pants that were too tight. I put him in looser clothes, hit it with some Benadryl cream, and called it a day.
And no one had another thought about it until he came to me Sunday night complaining that the bump was sore–lo and behold, the bug bite had gone from teeny-tiny speck to a full-on, rock-hard, pus-filled, black-widow-on-steriods fang hole in less than one afternoon. A four-inch circle of bright red covered his tummy. I got him into the doctor the very next day.
Merrick’s “bug bite” was quickly identified and drained. Tears were shed. My boy is now on the strongest, grossest medication mankind has ever manufactured and he’s soaking in a bleach bath twice a day. He’s a total champ because the pain that comes along with this crazy infection is the absolute worst. I can’t even touch his belly without him crying out–he hobbles around the house, and spends most of his time carefully laying on the couch. Every now and then he slowly shifts positions but his tummy is so tender–it just hurts him to move. Saddest sight I ever saw, you guys.
So to recap, MRSA is a type of staph and staph is all over the place. You are exposed to it every day. You may even already have it. So if you see me and my family in public, don’t run. We are normally pretty sanitary people anyway, but now? We are the sparkling picture of pristine cleanliness. Apparently if we keep Merrick’s spot clean and covered, in addition to washing our hands every 10 seconds for 20 seconds at a time, then we won’t spread any MRSA to anyone. I hope we can kick this thing before the baby is born because, well, ew. I just really don’t like germs.
And, though I hope no one ever needs these tips, here are some tips:
1. This junk starts out like a teeny tiny bug bite or spider bite or pimple or boil. Keep an eye on that mess.
2. It gets red and it gets hard and it gets gross but do not pop it and try to drain it yourself, because you’ll just be oozing MRSA everywhere which is highly uncool.
3. Only a few antibiotics will work on it–and they aren’t yummy, so get a straw and SUCK IT UP, because it must be done.
4. Don’t share towels, wash cloths, soap, razors, sheets, etc. Wash ALL THE THINGS in hot-hot water with some bleach. Every. awesome. day.
5. Disinfect bathrooms and kitchens and door handles and cabinet handles and whatnot.
6. Keep the gross thing clean and covered and wash your hands after touching it at all.
7. Wash your hands for fun, like, all the time, with soap and hot water.
8. Buy a dozen of container of hand sanitizer and use the crap out of it.
9. Remember the time your child came home with head lice? What a fun day that was.
10. Don’t freak out, because it’s not as bad as the internet makes it sound. Or so I’m told. I, myself, am a panic attack master. That’s my path. So if you don’t hear from me in a week or so, it’s because I’m counting tiles and shaving all my hair off and scrubbing underneath my fingernails with a bleach-covered toothbrush.