Babies or Wounds?

So, today I got to watch a wound vac changing. Yep. We vacuum wounds in my world. We cut really porous sponges to fit your gaping wound (5 inches long and 2 inches wide. . . and I could see down into it. You know?), then we shove said sponge into your crater of a wound and then cover it with sticky plastic, cut a hole in the plastic and attach a Hoover. Well. Maybe not a Hoover. But, a big suction cuppy looking thing. And, the nurse I was watching told me that sometimes we get to fill your wound (which I've perhaps, perchance nicknamed Crater Lake in my head) with sterile water, then we take a sterile Q-Tip and dig out the green and white pus clinging to the shores of your cavernous wound. It made me all giddy, thinking about cleaning out infected, dehisced wounds.

So now I can't decide if I want to help deliver babies or remove goobers of infection from unnatural body holes.


I'll probably stick with babies.

For now.

What?

This weekend, I mentioned to someone at a BBQ that I didn't have much hair when I was two. We were talking about his little girl, who's two, and how he doesn't want to cut her hair for a few years. It seemed that there was some worry about how much hair she would have after the cut? I wasn't entirely sure. I mentioned that I didn't have enough hair to cut when I was her age. I had very little hair as a baby. It was sad. Anyway. Someone, who . . . doesn't always seem so bright, asked if I had bald patches. I'm sorry, what? Yeah. Bald patches. Apparently, he thinks I looked like this as a two year old.


And for the record. I didn't. And I told him so.

I looked like this.


Major. difference.