How strange to wake up with a red, hot chest. Okay, not red hot, but red and hot. No matter how many times I describe it, I can't seem to get it right. It was no different when my plastic surgeon squeeezed me in on an emergency basis.Him (touching my chest with the back of his hand): Oooo. Hot.
Me: Well, it is one thing to admire your own work, but, really. . .
Him: Temperature, dear. Hot temperature.
Me: Oh.
So it turns out that I got some weird, delayed, unexplainable case of cellulitis. Maybe. Since I went in right away upon noticing it, the doctor was not 100% convinced. All I know is that it was hot and red and burning from the inside out. A couple days of antibiotics has brought it back to near normal and a lot less hot.
But out of the blue? Two months after surgery? Strange. But then what is normal anymore? I can handle a little heat. . . as long asI have a fan aimed down my shirt, that is.
So close to a clean get away. . .
Labels: plastic surgeons
