Boil Maker

So last post, I talked about the dreaded boil that I had as a kid—sparked by Alan Arkin referring to writers as having a boil that has to be taken care of… that’s why they write. Paraphrasing, but not very well.

And the boil squeeze that my mom did to me every morning for what seemed like the entire school year, reminded me of another time. As an adult.

I noticed this black dot on my breast. It grew. It concerned me since my mom died of breast cancer, and it had been drummed into my head to watch out for things on my skin that change color or size… or lumps that pop up. So I headed to a dermatologist.

The doctor was a man, probably younger than I was, and this made it even more uncomfortable bare-breasted, pointing to the black dot, telling him my concern. On his wheeled stool, he came in closer, stood up, took his two thumbs, just like my mother did way back when she got in position to squeeze the boil—and he squeezed the black dot. It all happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to scream, “STOP! What are you doing?” I was petrified that he was going to make my cancerous growth worse. A squiggly white line popped out where the black dot had been. He wiped it away, shrugged, and said, “Just a black head.”

I could feel my face turning 100 shades of red. I stared at my bare breast that no longer had a black spot on it… stupefied… mortified and relieved at the same time.

The doctor went on to explain that sometimes pores fill up with oil, dirt, etc.  What? Did he think I didn’t bathe? “If it happens again, you can just squeeze it yourself.” He left the room. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I got dressed lightning fast and scurried out of the building. I’ve never been back to him… found a woman doctor instead.

I keep telling myself, better safe than sorry.

Boils. Blackheads. But still blessed.

Turner Classic Movies and Boils

The other day (okay, maybe it was about a month ago or more) I was watching a tribute to Robert Osborne who has been the host of Turner Classic Movies… he recently died (okay, again, maybe it was more than recently). They were replaying Osborne doing an interview with Alan Arkin. It was brought up that Arkin had written about ten books, but he claimed he wasn’t a writer. It was something he did to fill the time in between acting jobs. He said a real writer writes every day—like having a boil—when the person writes, the boil bursts—but that boil is always there. The writer must write in order to release the pressure of the boil. Or something to that affect. I wished I had taken notes, but… I immediately understood exactly what he was talking about. I don’t have ten books published, but I am a writer. I do write every day. Oh I may miss a day or two out of the year, but I for the most part (daily) write down my dreams, a spiritual writing exercise and journal… babbling on about anything and everything… what Nathalie Goldberg calls, no wait, it’s Julia Cameron, what she calls, Morning Pages. And if all else fails with journaling, I am always writing a letter to some poor soul.

When I was a kid, I had a boil. On my left, upper inner thigh. Every morning my mom would squeeze that boil in between her two thumb nails releasing the yuck inside the boil. To me this was sheer torture and I dreaded waking up in the morning, knowing what would take place. This big pimply lump was an appendage to my thigh and I thought it never would quit refilling itself. I’d look away as my mom’s hard as steel nails headed towards the little red, snow-capped mountain. Some mornings while rubbing Mr. Sandman out of my eyes, I begged and whined, “Mom, do we have to do this?”

“Oh hush. Yes.”

I’d clench my teeth, eyes watering, hoping there wasn’t much to squeeze out… praying it wouldn’t refill itself again.

So, yes, I get boils… I am a writer you know.

Thumbnails

Dear Mom,

I just trimmed my thumbnails. For some reason I can’t stand for my thumbnails to be long—not even a little. I try, but then I get annoyed and off they come with the nail clippers.

Could this have been from when I was a child?

I had a boil on the inner, upper most part of my thigh. Every morning before school I’d stand in front of you while you sat in the kitchen chair and you’d take your two thumbnails and give the boil a squeeze. You had thumbnails that could be used as screwdrivers. I dreaded waking up seeing the boil puffed up knowing you’d be squeezing the bloody life out of it.

No doubt I had whined and begged for you to not squeeze it. I’d squirm, “That hurts!”

“Oh hush, I have to.” All the while your steel thumbnails are gouging in my skin on either side of the boil, oozing the puss out.

I hate boils and I’m not too fond of long hard thumbnails either.