I've written quite a bit regarding all the positive experiences I've had in my time with my body modifications, I thought it was time to document one of the more negative, painful experiences I've had. All names have been removed to protect the innocent.
At A Glance Author Stephen DeToma Contact Stephen DeToma@bme.anon IAM Sacred When Ten years ago or more Artist The Piercing Artist Studio The Piercing Studio Location Boston Back in my more novice days (this actually happened near 9 years ago), a short time before I would take steps to make body piercing my chosen profession, I was excited at the thought of any modifications. I thought long and hard about how and where and why I would have changes made to my body. I had only a few holes in my body at this point, the major ones being stretched ears and a septum. Looking ahead to something new, I settled on doing some work in my ears, specifically my conch.
I decided to go to a reputable shop in Boston. The establishment was a local, trusted, licensed business that had a wonderful reputation, and I put no fault in any way on them. Any and all lack of responsibility falls squarely on my shoulders. I headed into The Shop with my future ex-girlfriend, she was planning on having her tragus pierced and we were making an evening of it, following up our visit to The Shop with dinner at a small Chinese restaurant in Allston.
The procedure was quick and pleasant, calming music played and deep breathing soothed the pain of a 10g needle passing through my cartilage to make room for a 12g captive bead ring. The bleeding was not out of control, but it did take a few minutes to make sure that nothing would come bursting fourth after the fact. I discussed aftercare with The Piercer and after both piercings were completed, we headed off to our dinner date.
Now at this point, I could still feel a bit of the blood sticking to the ring, congealed and ready to give way. I didn't think it would be an issue, but then, I didn't take into consideration that we were traveling by public transportation and on foot. We headed into the Chinese restaurant and I was feeling OK for the time being, but I was becoming increasingly paranoid about the impending drip. Having nothing to catch or wipe the drip with, I headed into the bathroom of the restaurant to get a paper towel to wipe my ear.
Did anyone else catch that? That last sentence right there was the point that, if we were in court trying to convict me of infection in the first degree, that's the point where the prosecutor would slam down some large law book and scream, "Your honor! I rest my case!" in his best Southern Baptist accent. If I knew then what I know now, I never would have even entered the restaurant. Hell, I probably would have gotten drive-through. Take-Out, maybe.
So, at some point during my interaction with a rest room that, to be sure, was probably not the cleanest thing in the entire world, I can assume that I picked up some manner of bug, some type of bacteria, and deposited it directly into my brand new puncture wound. At the time though, I didn't think anything of it. I went out, had a lovely dinner and headed off to home.
And so it was a short time later that I noticed that my ear was severely inflamed. It was red, it was warm to the touch and I was in pain. The tissue looked distended and I was worried. I did what I had been doing with things like this since I was a kid; I showed my mom. Mom immediately said it was infected, and me seeing it as a knee jerk reaction, I didn't pay it much mind. But boy, did it hurt.
I figured that by scrubbing it out with the antibacterial soap, I could somehow clean the infection out. Yeah, that wasn't happening. I also thought that it would be a good idea to remove the ring to alleviate some of the pressure. Also not a good idea I learned. Days later, I could easily tell that my left ear was roughly twice the size of my right, and I was scared as hell.
Within the next 12 hours, I had decided that the best course was to go to the hospital and get looked at. I went into the emergency room with an ear that would qualify as comedic in size if it wasn't so goddamn painful. I waited a fair amount of time to be seen and finally had my ear looked at. I had a quick round of blood tests as well as your typical pokes and prods, as well as enduring the amateur comedy hour at Framingham Union Hospital. I'm more than amazed that the nurses attending to me didn't have blossoming stand up comedy careers, based on some of the gems that they were coming out with about my piercings and tattoos. Finally, I had the doctor come back and explain that I was walking around with a fairly serious staph infection attached to the left side of my head. I was so irritated and in such pain at this point that the only response I could muster up was: "Well fuck; at least it's not cancer".
I was set upon by a nurse, who couldn't find a vein with both hands and a flashlight, to attach me to an IV drip via a needle. She wielded that 22g nightmare with all the poise and grace of an 11 year old girl, blindfolded in front of a piņata. When I asked her if she wanted me to just find the vein for her, she just laughed and told me not to worry, that she was a nurse. My mind was instantly set at ease, and if you believe that one, I have a lovely bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.
So I sat and took the liquid antibiotics, staring at a wall, trying to replay the events that landed me in the care of the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges and Carrot Top. At any moment, I expected Gallagher to come bursting into the exam room, smash a watermelon with a large wooden mallet and then ask me to provide a urine sample. When the bag was finished, the nurse returned and explained that I would have to return the following day to have another bag, adding that the liquid was the fastest route to eradicate the infection. As bumbling as they were with the diagnosis and the execution of the IV, I have to admit, at least the antibiotics were working.
My IV was removed and I was sent on my way. The next day I returned and went to the room I was asked to sit in and waited for my nurse. It had previously been explained to me that I would only require this additional day of antibiotics. And so it was, after being left alone in the exam room for an additional 40 minutes after the bag had drained (the whole time, nurses poking their heads in, looking at the empty bag and leaving) a different nurse than had started my bag came in to inform me that I would need an additional bag the next day. I stopped her, explaining that the previous nurse had told me that I was to be paroled after this final session. She insisted that I return for the final bag. I asked if I was to be stabbed at blindly for a third day in a row and to my surprise, she said "No". She went on to explain that due to the trauma from the previous nurses massacre of my circulatory system, she would simply leave the shunt and IV needle taped into my arm before I was turned loose. I waited a second for the inevitable laugh track that would accompany this hilarious punch line. It never came.
I don't know how many of the readers out there truly know how much fun it is to operate an espresso bar with a needle buried in ones arm, but for those of you who don't, it's really quite thrilling. With every movement, every bend of the arm, the needle pokes and wiggles making for a whole host of uncomfortable sensations. By the end of my shift at Starbucks, I was ready to snap. People who seek revenge by stalking the halls of an office building with an automatic weapon, I can't say that I agree with them, but I understand.
The next day I returned to the House of Pain for my third and final installment of Laugh In: ER Edition. By this point I was an old pro and I was shown the red carpet treatment complete with waiting alone in an exam room for 25 minutes before someone could come and attach an IV drip to my shunt. After waiting the required 30 extra minutes, just to make sure that the IV bag wasn't going to get up and walk away, a nurse finally came in and removed the bag. I then politely told her that if she didn't get the needle out of my arm that I was just going to do it myself and it wouldn't be pretty. She acquiesced to my request, thankfully, and I was finally free of the needle. As I made my way out of the classy establishment that I had checked into 3 days earlier, I picked up my coat and hat at the check booth, tipped the valet driver, hopped in my Jag and took off.
Clearly that didn't happen. I fought with the desk clerk about paperwork. I was bounced between 3 doctors before I was allowed to leave. I finally got so fed up that I signed the paperwork, left it on the desk and headed for the door. I was stopped by a nurse who returned me to the nurses station where she grabbed a nearby doctor, asked if I could leave. The doctor responded in the positive and I was finally free.
In the next 24 hours, nearly all signs of the infection were gone, save 2 little souvenirs. The first was a pleasant little side effect of the entire area around the site of the piercing scarring into a sort of plate. The entire interior of my conch is now one fused, hard piece. The second was a gigantic goddamn hospital bill for my 3 day visits and bags of drugs. The bill is gone, the scarred tissue is not.
If I take anything away from this, it's a much greater appreciation for the human body, as well as a crash course in cross contamination, before I even knew such a thing existed. I think about it each and every time a customer comes into the studio claiming that their piercing, which is quite clearly irritated, is infected. Or when someone explains to me that they had 4 or 5 infections during the course of their healing time. To these clients I always say, "Let me tell you a story".