MRSA.
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to WebMD, “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
"Natalie stop being a pussy. It’s just a spider bite. Now shut up and watch "The Hills.'"
It wasn’t a spider bite.
For about about two days I dragged my "spider bite" along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
This was not good.
When I showed my parents “it”... “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
"This is not good."
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a military doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite,” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
Luckily my parents understand that I have the mentality of a 5-year-old and that ice cream, specifically any type of McFlurry, would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, or you could die, mkay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now back to that "extrememely hot washcloth." Here's the thing, my mother didn’t exactly understand the difference between hot, and "I'm trying to melt off your skin with steam." Or she did, but she was hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
They didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Holy fucking Jesus Christ.”
“Natalie. Stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…possibly not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Oh okay. I just hope you don't die…good night.”
I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case you were wondering.