My First Aid Training Finally Pays Off

At the beginning of the summer, I took a CPR/First Aid class. A few days ago, I had the chance to use my mad first aid skills on none other but my husband, Dan.

I should first say that Dan never follows doctor's orders. It doesn't matter how many times he has been told not to stick Q-tips in his ears or not to pop or pick at his pimples. He does it anyway.

"But it keeps my ears from itching," or "But it makes my zits go away faster," he says because he obviously knows more than years and years of medical science and research.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was that Dan was my first subject.

"Okay, Ms. First Aid," said Dan, who had been outside mowing the lawn, "What do you for yellow jacket stings?"

I should also say that Dan was a Boy Scout and a lifeguard and had to take very extensive CPR/First Aid courses. Plus, he is a genius who remembers everything, so it is pretty improbable that he had forgotten how to take care of a bee sting.

But, like a caring spouse and a First Aid certified crazy person, I ran to the coat closet and grabbed the "Heartsaver Basics" cheat sheet out of my school bag.

"First, we need to check for a stinger."

No stinger.

"By the way, if there was a stinger, I would scrape it away with a credit card."

"Yeah, okay."

"Now you need to wash the sting with cool water."

Dan ran water over the sting  for a couple of seconds.

"You have to wash it with soap!" I commanded.

And he did. So far, he was taking my doctor's orders pretty well.

"Now, we need to put a bag of ice on the area for twenty minutes and watch for a severe allergic reaction for thirty minutes."

"But I have to finish mowing the lawn."

"Do you want to bring down the swelling or not?" I asked, pointing to the sting that was starting to puff up. "The venom could be spreading as we speak!"

"I'm fine."

"I guess you could check in about five minutes and see how it's doing," I conceded with a sigh.

About five minutes later, we realized the ice was starting to "burn" the sting, so I wrapped the pack in a wash rag.

"Five more minutes," I ordered, but he had already started watching TV. Five more minutes turned into twenty anyway.

The swelling did go down, and Dan finished mowing the lawn. But the next day, Dan came home from work with a patch of red on his forearm.

"Why is it so red?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Have you been scratching or picking at it at all today?"

"Maybe . . ." he said.

I gave him a disapproving look.

"It's itchy!"

"That means it's healing!" I said, but I really didn't know whether or not that was true. I was just regurgitating what my parents had always told me about itchy cuts and scrapes.

"I didn't scratch it that much."

"It seems like you disregard everything the medical professionals say about taking care of yourself."

"Not everything," Dan replied. "I just disregard whatever I feel like disregarding."

Despite my husband's lack of concern for his yellow jacket sting, it did, in fact, start to heal. Everyday he would come home from work, and I would inspect the sting with a nod of approval. Pretty soon, I quit the inspections.

Still, occasionally I would ask, "How's your bee sting? Is it red?"

"Only when I scratch it!" he would respond with a self-satisfied chuckle.

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