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This is a question Ouch!

A friend was once given a biopsy by a sleep-deprived junior doctor.
They needed a sample of his colon, so inserted the long bendy jaws-on-the-end thingy, located the suspect area and... he shot through the ceiling. Doctor had forgotten to administer any anaesthetic.

What was your ouchiest moment?

(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 17:29)
Pages: Latest, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Pissed up Mrs at my cousins wedding....
...she was 2 and a half bottles of wine in after 3 hours. Just after the speeches I took her back to the hotel room in the hope of her going for a snooze but she flew into a rage spouting "we're never going to get married, they have only been together 5 minutes, you don't love me...." ect. She stormed off into the bathroom but didn't turn the light on, went to sit on the toilet but sat on the bidet. The spout on the tap of bidet went straight up her arse and broke her coccyx. I found her face down in her makup bag sobbing the words "the toilet bit me". She couldn't sit down for 4 weeks.
(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 22:45, 4 replies)
Eve's Punishment, or Chickenlady's guide to women's health.
How convenient that in the week that the question is titled 'Ouch' I should go for a smear test. Fortunately technology has finally reached women's health and this unpleasant scraping of one's cervix in order to ensure death by Jade Goody doesn't follow. The test is no longer eye-wateringly painful, but merely uncomfortable, but more of that later. Being a woman - as some of you know - is fraught with pain and discomfort so I thought I'd share....

The joy of periods

Now, while these will continue until menopause at around the mid-fifties (not to be confused with the 1950s - they didn't even have sex then, let alone periods), they generally begin during the teenage years. For me this particular burden began when I was a 5'4" ten year old who wore size six shoes, size ten clothes and towered over most of the nuns at my convent primary school. The pain when periods began for me was mental and emotional.

Ouch factor - 1

When I was fifteen I began to experience pain with each passing month of joyous feminine existence. The pain was generally accompanied by vomiting - ever been in such pain that you vomit? Not nice, especially when you're having your first kiss.

Ouch factor - 4

The pain continued even after having children so much so that I'd lose large quantities of blood - far, far more than I should have lost. Generally the average woman will lose about an egg-cup full of blood during the five-ish days of her monthly period. I was able to measure how much I lost because about three years ago I went over to a Moon Cup - ladies, if you haven't tried one of these, you should - environmentally friendly and more importantly CHEAP! Anyway, using a Moon Cup you can see how much blood there is - yeah, it's not for the squeamish, but then all women have to get used to seeing their own blood each month. So, I was losing a cup full in about two hours....That's when I began passing out with pain.

Ouch factor - 6

So I decided to stop all of that with a Mirena IUD - no pain, virtually no periods, no babies - what's not to like?

Erm...the insertion.

Wait until you're in the middle of your period - hmm, nice and messy but an open cervix. Remove all lower clothing, lie on your back please, feet up towards your bottom then let your knees fall open. Elegant and sexy! Nice anglepoise lamp aimed at the action and a doctor and nurse both wondering where you got that wax job done. Out comes the first tool for the job...a large shiny speculum - gentlemen, google these and imagine that being stuck into your orifice and opened fully. The KY jelly is squirted liberally onto this and to be honest it looks like something Bender from Futurama would use when getting jiggy with the fax machine. The doctor then 'gently' shoves this into you - into that place that until your first cervical smear (they used to use the same kit) had only been used for fun and not as a mechanic's inspection pit. Once into place the doctor, who now appears to be wearing oily overalls and sucking breath in through his teeth as he assesses the damage, cranks it open - yes, these things OPEN UP so much so you can feel the breeze on your kidneys.

"Everything looks healthy there Ms Chickenlady. Right, I'll begin by putting in a sound to check the size of your uterus. This might be a little uncomfortable but the nurse will hold your hand, okay?"

You've got a tyre jack in my fanny, what do you think? I smile thinly and nod, all the while examining the crack on the ceiling and trying to not think about my own.

Out comes a knitting needle. Is this the doctor's way of telling me I'm about to become a mother again and I need to start on a pair of bootees and a matinee set? No, this is a sound. I thought he was just going to shout 'Hello!' between my knees and wait for the echo, but no, a 'sound' is actually a fuck off length of metal - a depth gauge if you like. I believe the Spanish Inquisition began first using them before their medical versatility was discovered.

In goes the knitting needle. Through the tyre jack. Through my insides until it's resting sharply on the back of my throat. Okay, it wasn't that far, but it just as well might have been. The mild discomfort that the doctor promised was a deep stab that made my eyes water. "My, my. How many children have you had? Ah, it was twins, wasn't it? They were large, weren't they? And you had a c-section - good thing really otherwise I suspect you'd be having surgery."

Thanks Doc. Yes, my reproductive organs are like the TARDIS - small narrow doorway to get in, but much bigger on the inside. In fact if I ever had any more children they could probably camp out in my uterus until they go to Uni.

Sod doing natural childbirth - having babies alters your insides enough as it is, if you can get a c-section and retain a tight drawstring silk purse rather than a saggy old sow's ear then DO IT. My insides may be cavernous but the entrance is as tight as an Emo's trouser leg - c-sections FTW!

Right, so the sound had done its measuring - it was like a magic show - I'm sure he pulled out hankies, a bunch of flowers and maybe a cockatoo dove. Now time for the IUD itself. Ha! Thought the sound was 'uncomfortable'? Welcome to hardcore S&M on the NHS! And you even get a nurse in uniform to hold your hand.

I glare at the ceiling and try to ignore how my ears are getting damp. After about three days it was finally over and the doctor slowly began to remove all the tools and I attempted to feebly cling to some dignity as I dressed.

On the upside I haven't passed out, had period pain or a period like before ever since.

Ouch factor - enough to cut off the circulation in the nurse's hand



And don't even get me on mammograms - just get someone to stamp on your tits.
(, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 12:36, 30 replies)
My balls cause untold distress to others.
Gather round, children, I'm going to tell you a story. The story of the most painful object ever designed by humans. A device whose sole raison d'etre is to inflict pain on unsuspecting individuals. And also on suspecting individuals who couldn't escape. This object is so horrific that even the US army dare not use it.

I speak, of course, of the Mouldmaster.

For the uninitiated, a mouldmaster is a football. Not just any football, it has a moulded rubber surface. This surface is not smooth. It's designed to be hard wearing, mostly as a training ball, and as such takes no shit from players. Oh no, it is the master of the pitch. The players are merely waiting to suffer, though they may not yet know this.

This question is about your ouchiest moment, so mine is simply as follows: I played football with a Mouldmaster. It's common for humans to boast of the pain they endured, as a badge of honour to say "This hurt soooo much, but I'm (more or less) not dead". With the sentence "I played football with a Mouldmaster" you can instantly get sympathy from any fellow sufferers.

We all shared the pain. Usually at school level or thereabouts, and always on a red ash pitch. All games took place on a freezing December morning, even if the calender read May. Mouldmasters had that effect. The game would start painlessly enough, with little warning of what was to come. After about 5 minutes, you'd go for a ball, but the defender would get there first and make his clearance. And the Mouldmaster would connect full force with your leg.

Medical science has no proof of the phenomenon that occurs when a Mouldmaster hits a leg, but we all know exactly what happens. Your leg instantly sprouts hundreds of microscopic penises, and each one of them immediately catches itself in a zip. There is no other explanation for the sheer waves of pain coursing through your body at the speed of light. The surroundings go black, for your brain has no capacity to process anything other than the pain. You pray for instant death to ease the suffering.

Later in the game, the same thing will happen, but this time the ball will not catch you full force. It will do much worse. It will catch you with a glancing blow. it is then you will realise that this is not a football at all, but a spherical belt sander on overdrive. The pain will seem like all the heat on earth has been concentrated on your skin, just on that one patch. You will, again, want to die.

The worst part is that as this is Scotland, you will be unable to show any pain, lest you be labelled homosexual by your peers. So there is the unedifying spectacle of 22 youthful males, all in chronic pain, all unable to say a word for fear that they'd be mocked. Only later in life, when reminiscing, can you admit the physical hell you underwent 3 times a week.

And I wouldn't change it for the world.
(, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 11:28, 5 replies)
So yeah.
I went to the doctors as a child with a peanut stuck in my ear. He poured in some warm chocolate and it later came out a Treat.
(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 18:07, 1 reply)
Does mental anguish count?
My daughter at roughly the age of 8, was balancing on top of the low stone wall next to a chain link fence. Her carer told her, 'get down, you might fall' which to an 8 year old's ears was a primal challenge.
She did get down though after tripping and falling.
To catch herself, she clamped her left arm down on the top of the fence with all her weight. Just one problem: the top of the fence wasn't blunted. It was a collection of razor sharp spikes and tore her upper arm completely open.
When I met her at the doc's office (stupid insurance rules dictated she had to be seen by a doctor before they would pay for a trip to A&E) the carers had wrapped her arm in yards of gauze. The doc unwrapping it had a split second glimpse of the damage, yelped "Whoa!" and wrapped it back up. He offered he "might take a stab at repairing it if we were in backcountry Alaska" but the A&E was prolly a better choice. So we wasted an hour delaying treatment in order to satisfy my corporate masters.

In all its gory glory at hospital, I almost fainted. It looked like a bear had tried to eat her and partially succeeded. The muscles were chopped and hanging open, I could see the glistening surface of her bone, skin was a savaged blue-purple and gobbets of fat were falling to the floor. And the blood! And all the while my brave little girl kept it together with trembling lip.

She broke my heart. For some reason she has a fear and horror of medical things and was begging me to "sew me up at home! I just want to go home!"* She gagged when she saw her arm in the reflection of the doc's aviator style glasses. When she understood she would have to have a LOT of stitches, she cried. I would have gladly ripped my arm open myself to spare her but that's not how it works.
To add insult to injury, the doc tried to palm off her care on a third year med student: "My colleague is a fully trained M3 and will sew up your child's injury". I refused, told him I knew what an M3 was and he'd better get the attending to stitch and a plastics guy to close it cause I wasn't having my daughter's arm be a learning experience.

Amazingly enough, that is what happened. He did his job and I shut up per the unspoken agreement.

She was so frightened while he worked on her, I made her look in my eyes while I told her a story. It took over an hour and I talked the entire time, telling C.S. Lewis' "The Silver Chair" from memory. The staff was enthralled and hung on my every word. The plastic surgeon finished before I reached the end and when I stopped talking, the junior nurse exclaimed "Oh, tell us what happened!" They thought I had been making the story up on the fly, right out of my own head.

She had over 120 stitches (I lost count)inside the arm and 65 minute, teeny tiny plastic surgery stitches to close the skin. I saw every one put in. The big jagged scar must be over a foot long and has healed to an almost invisible silver.
I have never suffered such anguish as that day. I don't know how people lose children and still go on living. Seeing her in pain, mutilated, whimpering yet trying to be a brave girl for Mommy and Daddy made me feel like I'd been kicked in the chest.


*Two years before, she wanted me to set her broken arm so get out of going to hospital.
Four years before, she ripped open the armpit down to the capsule on the same arm. Because she didn't want to miss swimming, she merely balled up her T shirt and stuffed it in the wound. We found it almost too late to repair without undergoing general anesthesia. My woo-woo friend says she must have been a Roman centurion in a previous life.
(, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 6:26, 6 replies)
Airbags HURT!!!!
I've been pretty lucky when it comes to driving, having only had a couple of small prangs in over 25 years with no real ouchies at all. This all changed two years ago....

I was minding my own business driving down the A49 in Warrington (Winwick Road for those who know the area). No this road goes past Warrington College and on the day in question, I was driving past at kicking out time at a steady 40mph (ish) when I was distracted by the rather pert cheeks on a young student wandering along the pavement on my side of the road. When I say distracted, what I actually meant was I craned my neck in the style of a barn owl, all the better to have a look at the front of the vision in tiny shorts.

My curiosity satisfied, I turned to face in the direction on travel only to see the back of a shiny new Astra looming... I had about half a oneosecond to react and turned the wheel through about a quarter of a turn to avoid the car.

Now airbags are designed to protect the head and torso in the event of a crash. In the event, my arms which would have been in the perfect position for the airbag to inflate between them and give me a lovely kiss and save my life were crossed over the wheel. My left forearm was clean broken and my wrist smacked me dead centre on the forehead knocking me out cold.

Now most of this happened in a tiny fraction of a second - the ouchie came when I came to, and used my broken arm to undo the seatbelt. I never knew how shiny bones were when they are poking through the skin and I always thought bone marrow was dark and tasty like it is in a lamb chop and not red and gooey.....

I passed out again and waited patiently for the ambulance.
(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 15:57, 10 replies)
Bang
This isn’t the most painful thing I’ve done, but comes way ahead if you to the maths (pain x stupidity).

I was in Finsbury park tube station, standing up one end of the platform, the end where the train first emerges from the tunnel, the end where it’s still going fucking quickly, that’s where I was.

Standing with my feet near the edge of the platform in a bit of a dream world, I looked down and noticed a loose shoe lace. I started to crouch down and lean forward to do it up..... I woke up strapped in a stretcher being carried up the spiral staircase.

I’d tried to stop the tube train with my head.
(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 17:15, 8 replies)
My hand surgeon doubled as a plastic surgeon, so I should've gotten a twofer on boobs and functioning opposable appendages!
Ah, gin! The inevitability of turning one’s self into a morose whirligig of bleeding agony is juuuuuuust masochistic enough to keep us revisiting this roguish drink. I am that delicious juniper berry swill’s silly little dancing monkey, and I pay for it.

After getting well and truly ginned to the tits at a friend’s party, I thought, well, balls to maturity and self-respect. What I mostly wish to do is get on this child’s swing and wind myself up like a corkscrew! I wound, and I wound and, wheeeeeeeeeeeee! I twirled to let go, just like I used to do when I was a kid.

Only, as a kid, I wasn't idiot enough to stick my thumb in the chain. I think the lack of gin made me much smarter back then.

As I twirled, my thumb remained relatively stable in place. I twisted my thumb around, oh, a couple of times. By golly, that hurt. But there was gin to drink, so I put off going to the hospital until morning.

With the new day came the dawning that my thumb was a purple zeppelin affixed perilously to my hand; floppy, upside down and pointing in the wrong direction. I had dislocated it. I had torn all sorts of really important bits. I had a spiral fracture. I got the inevitable stabilising screws, cast and mind-altering drugs.

The very next weekend was Easter, and Easter meant Gin for Jesus. After a couple of aforementioned mind-altering drugs and some gin – I had since forgiven that handsome juniper nectar - in my friend’s yard, drugs dictated that climbing a tree would be the best possible plan of action. One-handed and yet holding a gin & tonic, I got about 6 feet up into the tree, until I fell...

…breaking my other thumb.

I genuinely spent 2 months of my life in a constant state of ‘thumbs up’. It ain’t the pain, my gathered progenies, which is the moral of this story. It’s the fear of looking like a morbidly uncool Fonzie which should keep you away from gin.


(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 16:14, 4 replies)
My most painful experience ever






Damn I'm good
(, Sun 1 Aug 2010, 17:36, 8 replies)
Bonk
My girlfriend and her mate were strolling into Norwich city centre one fine afternoon. When waiting to cross a fairly major road, a big old truck coming down the hill last control, and started coming toward them.

In true movie tradition, instead of darting out of the way, they stood there screaming as the truck skidded, expecting death.

Instead, the truck hit the traffic light they were standing next to, which now started to fall on top of them, screaming was resumed as the big black bastard descended, expecting at least serious injury.

As fortune would have it, the traffic light stopped just above them, presumably tethered by the concrete base, and they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Then one of the circluar plastic casings that house the individual lights fell off, and bonked my missus on the noggin.
(, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 10:09, 10 replies)
Ouch
I used to go out with a girl who was rather pretty, but not too bright. One afternoon after we'd had sex, I was laying there drowsily in post coital bliss, when she's grabbed the end of the condom and started stretching it. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm taking it off for you." she's replied. I explained that that's not how you take off a condom, and she's said "Oh", and released it. From a stretch of about 30cm!
SNAP! Right onto the tip of my overly sensitive, just ejaculated poor cock. I've let out an almighty bellow, and she's run for the door, fearing retaliation. Of which there was none, just a half cried explanation of why that wasn't such a brilliant idea.
I still shudder when I think of that, and it happened in about 1987!
(, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 0:35, 5 replies)
Pube
While having a shower one morning I discovered I had an extraordinarily long pubic hair. It was a real whopper- so I excitedly woke up my girlfriend to show her. We spent an instructive and educational couple of minutes playing with it, wrapping it around my willy and enjoying other sundry activities, then solemnly decided the pube was a safety hazard and had to go. I stood in the bathroom poised with a pair of nail scissors, and chuckled to myself at the thought of getting the spazz hand and cutting my bell end open.

I then proceeded to get the spazz hand and cut my bell end open.

I'm not going to tell a length joke so much as wonder to myself why I just told the internet that story.
(, Sun 1 Aug 2010, 9:39, Reply)
Never talk back to a man holding a swab
This is my first ever pearoast. I feel like I've arrived.

Last year I decided (or, more accurately, was told) to get myself a full-blown sexual health check for the first time ever. Yes I know it's a bit shit waiting 30 years to ensure that your bollocks aren't a breeding ground for horrific parasites capable of causing untold agony to those they are inflicted upon - imagine finding out that you've been housing Piers Morgan in your jangly danglers - but I've hardly been distributing the Foxtrot mojo far and wide during my time on this earth. And I've heard what goes on in those sex check-ups, and frankly I was scared.

I swear the waiting room at the hospital is designed to be like a mental chamber of horrors for anyone waiting to discover if they'll ever go bareback again. Everywhere you look there's an "educational" pamphlet about one of the many horrific diseases you've probably got, you disgusting boy. The only other reading material available was Men's Health, as if I didn't feel insecure enough already.

Eventually the Doctor beckons me through and we start compiling a sexual history for me. Because what I'm about to have done isn't humiliating enough. I'm doing OK - this appears to be the only situation where it's alright to tell another bloke that not many women have seen fit to fuck you - when he drops an unexpected bombshell, although by definition I think most bombshells are unexpected, otherwise they're just... bombs? Shells? Answers on a postcard. Or in the replies. That makes more sense.

"Have you ever had a sexual experience with a man?"

Ah. Well, yes. When I was 22 I may have indulged eversoslightly in what could politely be termed a great big drug-fuelled seven-person orgy. And this being part of my experimental phase, there was a bit of man-on-man action going on. I mention this and the medical professional looks at me like I've just ritually slaughtered his firstborn. This upsets me.

My doctor was late 50's/early 60's and of Indian origin, judging by his accent. He may have personal, moral or religious objections to homosexuality. Frankly, I don't give a shit, homophobia is completely unacceptable in my opinion and he's a bloody doctor - he's not supposed to judge me unless I've strolled into A&E with cocaine falling out of my nostrils, clutching a plastic bag full of severed heads and complaining of a nosebleed, accelerated heartbeat and hallucinations.

He asks if I'm bisexual, visibly disgusted by the concept. Bridling, I reply that I don't count myself as such because I haven't had any sexual contact with a man in several years, and I would have thought that was obvious from the sexual history we've just been compiling.

I am slightly worried by the glint in his eye as he beckons me into the next room and invites me to sit down.

First of all, he explains, he needs to swab my throat. This wouldn't be necessary if I wasn't a filthy bumboy, he fails to add but is obviously thinking. Next comes the part I was dreading until my righteous indignation diverted my mind from the horrific prospect of having a swab rammed down my jap's eye - namely, the horrific prospect of having a swab rammed down my jap's eye.

At this point, I am regretting giving the doctor any lip. As it were.

Thankfully, homophobic or otherwise he is professional enough not to force my cock to deep throat a swab. It was a bit rubbish, as I'm sure many of you know, but at least it was over quickly. Job done. Let's go home and drink beer and eat meat and watch Top Gear until I feel masculated again.

"If you could roll over onto your side Mr Foxtrot, I just need to get an anal swab"

I ask you, is there a worse sentence in the English language? That even beats out "Oasis have reformed" for sheer, unbridled horror. I begin to protest that I've never had anal sex (I actually haven't, well, not as a receiver anyway) but from his point of view I'm already a disgusting pervert, "compulsive liar" isn't a huge assumptive leap and he's just doing his job... Resigned to my fate I await the first ever invasion of my trademan's entrance by another man. Trying to alleviate my tension far enough to get the damn thing into my understandably puckered chutney chute, he jokes that I ought to enjoy this.

Hubris aside, with hindsight my response was a phenomenally dumb thing to say to prejudiced doctor with a swab in his hand.

"You'll need three fingers for me to enjoy it, darling"

Length? Really?
(, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 8:57, 12 replies)
I take no credit at all for this story
I just think it's absolute genius. And since my first reaction to this week's QOTW was overwhelmingly "Childbirth" I felt it deserved a pearost.

Original credit goes to BewilderedMum over at Bad Mother's Club.

After ds1 was born, I needed stitches. They removed the top half of the bed, and put me at the bottom half, with my feet in stirrups. It was a very small delivery room - in part cos I don't think they thought I was EVER going to give birth

Soo - am there, feet in stirrups, occupying the bottom half of the bed. The doctor was perched on a wheely stool thing, in this tiny delivery room, awaiting the passive arrival of my torn min-min, for his ministrations...

Aaanyway, cos of syntocinon drip, I was still honking like a good 'un, so some bright spark, propped me up on pillows , and raised the bottom part of the bed, so I didn't choke....

Unfortunately, because I am incredibly supple (tae kwon do) and had an epidural, which meant I had no feeling or control (or so I sez )

I SLID down the delivery table, past the end, past the stirrups - my feet stayed where they were in the stiruups, but the rest of me carried on..) and into the face of the waiting doctor.

Cos it was a small delivery room, he was PINNED to the wall, by my savaged min-min - honest to god, it was in his face. he shouted "HELP" in quite a distressed tone of voice, but the midwives and dh were busy with the baby..

After 38 hours of labour, and a severe sense of humour failure throughout - it suddenly returned..

The Doctor looked SO panicked - like I was wielding a sub machine gun, not a savaged min-min.

I remarked to him "I bet you didn't think you'd spend your saturday night like THIS did you!!" Then I LITERALLY pissed myself laughing - in his face...

Dh turned to me, with some irritation, and said "FGS sober up - you're a mother now!" - which made me laugh even more!! and the midwives ran to oik me up the bed - but the doctor looked distinctly nervous - he did a FABULOUS job of my stitches - afterwards, I hardly knew they were there -

mind you - by this point, he was prolly so freaked out by my min-min, that he thought if he didn't do a good job, my min would find out where he lived, and would come and burn his house down....
(, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 0:46, 9 replies)
Not me, but...
My best friend Stephanie has had chronic problems with one of her ankles since she broke it in a car accident. She has had several surgeries. The last surgery she had coincided with bringing home a rescue Norwegian forest cat. This is a story about them being in pain together.

The cat had been hit by a car and left for dead in front of her house. Stephanie brought the cat in to an emergency vet, and ended up adopting him after his owners failed to claim him. He lost a leg, which is a fairly invasive surgery - the vet actually removed the whole shoulder blade as well.

After she brought him home, they made a great pair: Stephanie limping on crutches and "Frankenstein" the tripod hobble-horsing around with giant stitches.

What Stephanie didn't know is that when Frank gets really excited, and really loves someone, he does a trick where he tries to jump in their arms. He did this three days after she brought him home. She was scared he would rip his stitches, so she dropped her crutches and tried to catch him. He weighs 25 pounds even without the leg, and he has sleek and slippery fur which makes him hard to get a grip on. Stephanie tumbled ass over tea kettle while Frank used her body to cushion his fall. He then tottered away as if nothing had happened.

After my first run-in with his jumping trick, my friend related this story to me-- except with 300% more expletives (the phrase "that fucking cat" might have been thrown around a bit) and accusatory pointing at this smug face:

(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 20:14, 3 replies)
Pearoast from the food sex qotw
Wafer thin
Many moons ago, long before the lovely Mrs Spimf happened along I had another young lady on the go, and blimey did she go. Up to all sorts (no this isn’t about liquorice) I’ve never really understood the food sex thing, the aerosol cream can and the mimsy were never destined to be happy bedfellows and I find it disconcerting to have a saveloy in the room during coitus. Similarly the alfresco thing escapes me: if I want a Cornetto I can do so without the slightest of hint lasciviousness and if I fancy some sexual intercourse then I find soft furnishings compliment the act quite satisfactorily.

Nevertheless young and keen to experiment I agreed to kill two birds with one cone. A picnic rug and (sensibly) a cool box were sourced along with some of Wall’s best selling chilled confectionary (Chocolate & Hazelnut naturally). We found a spot in the moonlight in some (slightly creepy) local woodland.

Despite my apprehensions my young hormones were unperturbed at the prospect of calorific copulation. I won’t dwell on the frippery, I’m not an erotic writer, I'll leave that to Mr Spankey et al. To be honest I was somewhat unsure what to do, clearly I was aware some degree of smearing and quite possibly insertion was required. My first attempt at ice cream carnal capers was to insert the Cornetto into my eager young partner’s rather splendid mimsy – pointy end first mind, she wasn’t a slag. This quickly left me bereft of ideas and things were melting fast. Ah! cunnilingus I thought – hurrah! In our comfy mossy spot under the creepy tree I crouched down and set to work, lapping alternately at clitoris and cream based confectionary with vigor – buoyed by my newly found decadence I decided to see if I could push some of the chopped nuts up her slippery balloon knot with my tongue, shifting down I set to work. This quickly proved ill advised, my adventurous young filly was suddenly possessed by a fit off giggles which served to force the Cornetto back out and on to my forehead and push melted ice cream into my eyes. As I recoiled the Cornetto remained stuck to my temple at a somewhat rakish angle – more giggles. I’ve never looked good wearing a hat. Humiliation was setting in quickly.

Happily my filthy little friend realised this and reached into the cool box and grabbed another Cornetto whilst deftly plucking the spent one from my forehead, tossing it in the air with impressive abandon. My fumblings were quickly forgotten as she tugged at my trousers. I can safely say the first time an ice cream cone is applied to the end of ones throbbing member is a moment never forgotten. With a wicked glint in her eye she knelt down, pushed the ice cream further down my hot shaft then suddenly lunged and bit down hard on the end of the cone! As soon as my pulse returned to mere humming bird levels I began to enjoy this impromptu porno picnic.

All too soon nearly all the ice cream had been eagerly sucked and devoured and my own churns were stirring, as my little minx delivered one last suck something terrible happened – as I flung my head back in ecstasy – the discarded cunnilingus cone felt out of the branches above where it had been lobbed with lusty abandon – smack in my bloody eye. This caused me to thrust forward, pushing the bell-end Cornetto halfway down the poor girls throat, I’ll never forget the horrible choking noise echoing through the woodland; like a lone goose honking at sunset, in fact I realised the whole situation was fast becoming my own willy honker and the chocolate hat tree.
(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 23:10, 5 replies)
wank pot ouchiness
In the nineties there was a show called eurotrash… it was great and, for the time, rather wank tastic.

In one of the show’s features, was a Japanese product; a wank-pot, this was a disposable plastic pot, not unlike a pot noodle, filled with a textured gel, which could be warmed up and then the whole contract slipped over your manhood to simulate the lecturer you were lusting after at the time.

Shortly after watching the above, I was preparing the wholesome student feast that is Pot Noodle - when I had a great idea… If I was to use just a little less water I could achieve a more ‘vaginal’ consistency of the potted vegetarian goodness.

Initial finger-testing went very well indeed and I settled down in a comfy chair and slowly slipped the prosthetic Ms Summers over my manhood.

It felt good. It felt really good.

Relaxing a little more, I leant back into the cushions, closed my eyes and eased my member deeper into the inviting beef and tomato goodness.

It was at this moment when the centimetre or so of collected, not-so-long-ago-boiling water dribbled and then spilt down over my bell-end, down the underside of my penis and over my testicles. 2 milliseconds of intense pleasure very quickly turned into 2 minutes of excruciating agony and finally into good 2 days of discomfort.
(, Sat 31 Jul 2010, 8:44, 8 replies)
Sneezing
Now, sneezing really shouldn't hurt. In fact it's quite a pleasurable thing in most circumstances. However one sneeze reduced me to a crying ball of girliness, sobbing curled up on the floor in front of several nurses despite my hunky beardy manliness.
It was the day after I'd had two cervical discs removed and replaced with bone harvested from my right hip, together with a plate bolted to three vertebrae to hold the lot together while the bone fused in.
To perform this operation the surgeon goes in from the front, hauls the trachea and oesophagus out of the way and does his bit with drills and chisels etc. This leaves you with a severe sore throat, coupled with lots of bruising and clips etc holding the bloody great hole in your neck together.

I'd been awake for about three hours and was actually feeling quite chipper (probably due to the vast amounts of morphine in my bloodstream and the lingering effects of general anaesthetic) and was chatting to the nurses when I hopped out of bed and threw the curtains wide open. The sunlight caused the sneeze and I immediately hit the floor, overwhelmed by the pain in my neck, throat and both arms (nerve swelling). Once I'd been helped back to bed, sobbing like a four-year-old, they went out. I felt better that they'd left as I was somewhat embarrassed by my girliness, but they came back, each of them wearing a very fetching plastic apron and rubber gloves. I asked them why?
Apparently I needed a bedbath and a change of clothes because I'd shit myself.

So much for dignity.
(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 22:58, 1 reply)
Exposing the dangers of Duck Duck Goose
This is my first post, but conveniently, it's also the story that most people know me for. For example, even though I was the woman's captain of a university sports club, pretty much all the members now refer to me as "that Duck Duck Goose girl". In fact if you do know me, this will instantly out me, so it might restrict the chance of future stories of sexual deviancy and intoxicant adventures.

Cast your mind back two summers. I'd moved in with my then-boyfriend to a beautiful house, cleaned it a little bit and then immediately started a summer job with a language travel company in Brighton. I spent the next eight weeks frantically running around after a variety of European students trying to teach them a little grammar, whilst hoping they wouldn't get knocked down by a car, drown in the sea or find themselves lost in the deepest depths of Moulsecoomb late at night. Eight weeks of this took the inevitable toll; I was severely behind on the washing up, I never really found a chance to unpack, I hadn't had a real conversation with my boyfriend for months, and I was therefore really, really looking forward to that day in August when I could stop checking my mobile for urgent calls about train times and would use a participle without mentally querying its formation.

August the 7th 2008, three days before my contract finally finished, the students had completed their end-of-course tests and it was a beautiful sunny day. I took the executive decision to reward them with an afternoon of typical English games in the college garden-area. British Bulldog: went off without incident. Stuck In The Mud: perhaps a little too contact-friendly for a group of hormonal teenagers, but hey, the French pretty much invented frottage anyway, who am I to deny them? But maybe it's time for a quiet little sit-down game.

So, after herding them into a giggling circle on the ground, I proceed to demonstrate the finer points of Duck Duck Goose. Unfathomably blonde Swedish girl? Duck. Messy-haired Italian skater kid? Duck. Tubby uncompetitive Austrian goth? Ah, we have a winner! Goosing the child in the only way that won't immediately violate my CRB form, I start to run in the opposite direction as they blunder to their feet and hesitantly wobble round the circle. Nearing the vacant spot, I start to do that thing where you slow to a mocking walk, punctuated by a few skips for effect. Oh, but shit! They've built up speed and look like they might just get there first. In a hasty dash, I lunge for the gap and skid into it in true baseball style.

SNAP.

This is the worst sound I have ever heard in my life. The second worst sound is that of 15 students collectively gasping at my foot, which is now turned 90 degrees to my knee in a gruesome attempt to mimic Mary Poppins. The bone is gently poking out of that mound in the middle of your ankle, and there are little drops of blood welling at the corners. Fuck. Fuck fuck cunty bollocking arsemonkeys. This is all unfortunately vocalised, immediately contravening all my good efforts not to teach them any bad language, but definitely bringing a sense of proportion to the situation. Whatever happens, mustn't cry in front of the children. Brave face on, I remind them to call 999 (no, NOT 911, we've gone over this before) and the boys proudly go to flag down the ambulance while the girls huddle round my face end, far from the offending appendage, and consolingly offer me a Penguin bar. The ambulance comes, gives me nitrous oxide (ahhh), takes me into hospital, medics wrench my foot into the correct position, I get surgery the next day with 8 pins in one side and two screws through the other. Yes, I broke both bones. According to a surgeon much later, the X-rays showed that my bone had actually been smashed by the impact of my fall as though it was a Crunchie bar.

Also, here is a picture of my ankle post-op. It's pretty gruesome, like some sort of extreme piercing, and there's the same on the other side but longer, about 15cm.

tinypic.com/r/rr2vqh/3

And here-in lies the rub. Because a broken ankle isn't that much to deal with, right? Everyone does it. Apparently, when I do it, I do it thoroughly. It took me until Christmas to walk without crutches, and two years later I have developed post-traumatic osteoarthritis which means that I still walk with a limp, have the largest cankle you've ever seen on a 23-year old, and the bone has grown back over the joint massively restricting my ability to walk or even stand up straight.

Because of the latter problem, I have to go into hospital tomorrow for an athroscopy, and they're removing the metalwork at the same time. I'm kind of scared, which the rational side of my brain scoffs at since I know general anaesthetic is practically risk-free and unlike some people I do trust the NHS... but still. This operation won't fix the pain I get when I walk (this type of arthritis is pretty much untreatable) but it might allow me to run, which I haven't been physically able to do for two years - all I manage is a lumbering gait which makes dashing to catch a bus even more of an embarrassing experience. So the real ouch wasn't the break itself (that was numbed by shock and the wonderfully quick administration of nitrous) but the fact that I'm only 23, and I will be unable to walk without pain for pretty much the rest of my life. Luckily I work as a carer, which is great for putting some perspective on your own health-worries.

Anyway, if anyone knows what I can do to get them to let me keep all the screws they take out of my bones tomorrow, please let me know; particularly if you have any follow-up ideas on a suitably gruesome artwork I could make with them...
(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 13:54, 7 replies)
Top and bottom jaw broken
A few years ago, to keep my teeth straight, the dentist recommended I had my jaw Re-aligned, as i had a slightly (but not overly stupidly) protruding bottom jaw.

several consultations later it was decided I would have my top jaw re-aligned aswell.

Basically they broke my bottom jaw, removed bone, pushed it back. Then removed my top jaw, pushed it forward and screwed it into place.

They then wired it together and secured it.

I woke, to find my face completely swollen, unable to eat or drink, and spluttering blood from the gaps in my Teeth braces.

As I was on Morphine, I got nauseous. Inevitably I started to puke the 1-2 pints of blood I had swallowed during the op, but I found I couldn't. There was no where for the puke to go. Instead it would seep out between the gaps in my mouth and at the back of the teeth, and would mostly back up and drain out of my nose. This takes alot longer than you may think. The urge to want to breath whilst liquid is draining from your nasal cavity was horrible.

I cannot begin to tell you the panic that took over me, I couldn't speak, for not only was my mouth wired shut, but my throat, mouth and face were swollen tight, so any noise I did was but a whisper of a moan. So when I felt an urge to be sick, I couldn’t call for help, beginning to be sick merely made the whisper come to an abrupt gloopy and smelly stop.

Now, at this point as I had choked a few times, I realised I either controlled the panic associated with puking, or I choked.

I remember a nurse sitting on the end of the bed for a fair few hours with a pair of pliers in his hand. It turns out - they kept these handy should things go badly wrong, they could release my jaw and allow me to breath.

After 2 days I was handed a mirror, What I saw looked much like a Picasso painting. As I looked closer - I noticed a small thread sticking out of either side of my mouth. Taped on either cheek.

It turns out this was a thread that went through my tongue and secured either side to stop me swallowing my tongue. This actually didn't hurt, but the removal did... because it got stuck inside my tongue.

It took two nurses to secure and pull it from my mouth.

Apart from those first 2 weeks it was plain sailing, apart from loosing a shed load of weight. About 20% of my body weight (I only weighed 10.5 stone before the op)

Teeth are pretty straight too.
(, Tue 3 Aug 2010, 10:59, 6 replies)
A long, drawn-out 'Ouch!'
Perhaps you've been there, too: To be bullied in such a way that you are the school year's pariah, at a boarding school no less where there is nowhere to run. You're only eight but already your outcast status is set in stone. A false, cruel rumour about a tryst...

Everyone says you're gay. You don't even know what that means. But you know it's REALLY BAD. Places clear either side of you at the breakfast, lunch or dinner table. You are contaminated. So many casual kicks and slaps, and trip-ups that leave your exercise books scattered across the floor. You get used to it after a while.

School outings or sporting activities that necessitate buddying up result - in the worst-case, odd-numbers scenario - in your partner being the teacher. You hear the sniggers and you know the teacher does, too.

Mummy's not been well so you had to leave home a year early at seven and snitching is social suicide, so you choose death by a thousand cuts. Father is always angry, too. No use trying to pierce his rhino-hide. He'd only see weakness.

At 13 you move to a big boys' boarding school. The constant state of fear has stunted your physical development. This means a small dick and no pubes for nearly three long years. Every shared shower is a misery. You are a boy amongst ‘men’. Sometimes you wet your hair in a basin after games and pretend you’ve already been. Or you hide under your bed and creep down to the showers when lessons have begun. You’d rather answer to a teacher than hear the whooping apes’ chorus of taunts and insults.

Someone likes your youthful physique though. He listens and he is sympathetic. You cry in front of him, and he embraces you, but he is a wolf in a cassock – a hypocrite and a demon - and you become another buried statistic in the catholic church’s litany of squalid betrayal. Maybe you really are gay.

At 14 you run away from home at the end of the summer holidays. You are found and returned. A pathetic cry for help. Your mother is perceived as the wounded party. Nobody asks you WHY? Instead of the usual taxis and trains, your father drives you back to school – not out of kindness but to ensure you don’t try to run again.

By 20 you are in rehab, a human pin-cushion, a vile junkie, your hand swollen and hot with the infected puss from a burst vein. You don’t believe it then but there are good people in the world and with their help you will find a way to build a life.

But the wounds run deep and, as my fortieth birthday looms, I am still hurting.

Ouch.
(, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 17:50, 5 replies)
Animal and Work Colleague Abuse
I currently work in a call centre which, while slowly chipping away at what remains of my soul, provides me with beer money for the weekend. It also provides me with a few genuine laughs, thanks to the people I work with.

There's a girl in the office who is...hmmm, how can I put this delicately...fat as fuck. It's as if Dawn French had eaten Rick Waller, Chris Moyles and Brian Blessed in one sitting. If you need to walk across the office, you have to compensate for her gravitational pull. In short, she's fat. Very very fat.

While wandering past my desk, she stops and starts rubbing her legs with a groaning sound. "You alright?" I ask, while surreptitiously clicking to hide my internet browser. "Yeah, my legs are just a bit sore," came the reply from the female Michelin man. "It's probably all that walking you're doing," I said, while thinking "And all the excess weight you're lugging around."

"No, it's not that," she replied. "I've started horseriding, and it takes a bit of getting used to."

As I start to nod in sympathy, one of my workmates, who's just stood up to visit the coffee machine, shakes his head, and says, "That poor fucking horse"

Apparently you could hear the sound of the slap from downstairs
(, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 13:20, 2 replies)
shot in the face
We've all been there I suppose - I was happily wandering down your typical English suburban street - every so often I'd see a single brick hovering magically in mid-air above my head. I jump up and punch it - a coin comes out. "How fortunate" I punch it again, another one. I keep doing this about 9 or 10 times and then nothing. Fair enough, and on I go.

Suddenly I'm confronted by a chicken/turtle thing (?) walking towards me with about 4 identical creatures following behind. It makes no attempt to get out of my way and I bump into it. This is the weird bit - I decrease in size, almost by half! Angered by this, I jump on the bugger and he disappears into his shell. I jump on him again and send the shell hurtling into all his mates knocking them into oblivion. I look around for any police officers or animal welfare types and thankfully find none but thinking it wise to lay low for a bit I jump down this massive green pipe into a sort of cave thingy.

More coins! Suspended in mid-air. I gather as many as I can for fuck knows what reason and emerge on the other side out of another enormous green pipe. I carry on for a bit until I find another box above my head, tantalisingly bearing a question mark. I punch it and a little (I say little, it's about as big as my entire body thanks to that chicken thing. Wanker.) star, flashing yellow and red, pops out of the top. I chase it and manage to catch it.

Suddenly I feel invincible and go looking for those chicken things. Oh how the tables have turned! Now, when I touch them - THEY die! "This is marvellous" I exclaim and sprint about the place killing all sorts - big plant creatures with cocksucker lips (they live in the pipes I think?), little spiky shelled hedgehog bastards and weird green lads who have a seemingly endless supply of hammers that they never tire of chucking at me.

But...and this is the 'ouch' moment.... it wears off completely without warning and I run head first into a fucking massive shiny black bullet with a face on it (??) and i go flying into the air and fall off the face of the earth. Ouch! Bloody Ouch.
(, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 21:03, 3 replies)
Not me but something I saw.
Last year, I was forced to attend a course by the job center called "skills for work" amoungst teaching us what to put in the space behind phone number on a job application (I'm not joking) we spent alot of time doing cv's. Bassic stationary was needed, including a stapler.

One of the chavs (of whom there were many) was dared to
staple his finger. Being a bright fellow, he agreed. Finger inserted, he smashed the stapler down with app his might. "why aye like, he's done it!" was shouted by one of the group. There, in the middle sat staple boy, grinning like a new father. Blood trickled merrily from the wound, the staple sat firm.

"Oh for heaven's sake, pull that out!" demanded the learning co-ordinator (baby sitter). Unfortunatly, the staple was reluctent to leave it's new home, embeded in the bone. Staple finger is taken to hospital for the rest of the day.

Next day he comes in, shit eating grin across his face. "Haha, was stuck in the bone like!" he announced to the room. "Did it hurt mate?" asks one of the chavs. "Nah man, I'd do it again now."

And he did. No hospital that day, but the staplers were removed.

The pain was of course realising I was stuck there for anouther week.
(, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 20:12, Reply)
Pea from the Doctors/Nurses/NHS whinge QOTW
Not my ouch, but anyway...

When I met my (wonderful, love of my life, should have told the story in the Flirting QOTW) boy all was well in bed. Better than well. Awesome. Except for one thing. I'm not an expert on the male anatomy, but you know the bit that's meant to be able to go back and forth? It just... didn't. Occasionally it would go back, but getting it to go forth again was difficult. Very difficult. And red. And sore.

Combined with my concern for my dearest beloved and the continuation of his sexing abilities, I didn't really fancy having to deal with blood and viscera should it ever happen to explode. This looked likely on occasion. So, after much cajoling I got him to go see the doctor.

Doctor's response? Bang, no sympathy, booking you in for a circumcision, put your trousers back on.

Cue much worrying (over Xmas) and anxiety and buying of DVDs for the inevitable week of housebound-ness (BattleStar Galactica SE1-4, watched it all in three weeks). The day rolls round. Had to wait a bit, but nothing you don't expect for the NHS, and annoyingly, they wouldn't let me in to wait with him or hear any of the post-op instructions. Did see older couples going in to day surgery together, perhaps they thought my youth meant I'd start stealing drugs and graffitying the screens.

So anyway, he comes limping out, looking a bit green, and we decide he'll get a taxi home while I walk, giving me the chance to pick up some painkillers - yup, they don't give you anything, even if you beg for morphine.

I get in the door about 10 minutes later to the worst thing I have ever seen.

I don't know if anyone here (barring doctors and nurses) has seen a newly circumcised penis before - even if you've had it done, you're told to leave it bandaged for 3 days so unless you're bizarrely fascinated by the sight of your own cock covered in blood, swollen to three times its girth, with stitches all around the head, I doubt many people will have witnessed this. It was horrendous.

The bandage, the amazing techno bandage we were told would last three days had come off in the taxi. The nurse hadn't taken the plastic off the side that sticks to the wadding. Tool. Luckily, he'd be skeptical enough about the three-day rule (as in "erm, how am I meant to piss?") to get them to give him spare kit, but we were still faced with the oozing, enormous (in a bad way) cock to deal with and no idea how to get the bandages to work.

Cue 10 minutes of practice which, if they were bad for me, must have been 40 times worse for him. Every touch is murder, and I'm mangling away with sticky bandages and tape. Didn't help he'd failed to trim his (luxuriant) pubes - ever accidentally anchored your penis to your body, tip facing up, by catching a pube in tape, then standing up? The force of gravity either rips the pube out or pulls the tape off. Either way, bonus pain to add to your experience.

I don't want to be too down on the NHS but the complete lack of advice and post-op support (phone line was always busy and didn't work weekends so we had to go to A&E when he popped a stitch, who were great) was just unnecessary. It would hardly cost any more to have provided us with a leaflet, let me ask some questions, and to put the fucking bandage on properly in the first place.

We call it the week of the Frankenpenis.
(, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 14:29, 3 replies)
Jamacan Balls
I was on My honeymoon in Jamaica, back in the days when Mrs Strokes hadn't surgically removed my wallet. She really wanted to try waterskiing. the training amounted to a one armed bloke in a power boat throwing you a rope, shouting "bend ze knees Maan" and taking off at an increddible pace. 45 mins of falling over. then I got the hang of it. I thought. Knees bent together, Elbows bent, absorb the bounces. I was up. for enough time to get up to about 90 miles an hour. at which point my left leg went left, my right leg went right and my nuts hit the water first. ouch. Possible slighty worse was having to see the huge jamacan nurse who advised my I had had a "Whack in de Bollocks" and I should wear "sportin briffs" "Uh?" "sportin briffs", "uh?" Briffs that gives you sport" "uh?" "Tight pants" explained the doctor.

PS Mrs Strokes didn't have a very good honeymoon either
(, Thu 29 Jul 2010, 18:14, Reply)
By popular demand- The black head in my penis story.
I mentioned this in my other story & it got alot of attention, it's not the worst pain ever, maybe top 5, but anyway, here goes...

(Wavy lines)

When I was about 13-14 & during one of my very frequent erections, I noticed a tiny, tiny bump on my penis. Being a greasey teen, I knew what a blackhead was, I just didn't know how the fuck it got there! So as with any black-head, I thought to myself "pop it"! I tried, it hurt, I couldn't, I left it. I thought nothing of it, but always noticed it when I was, y'know, "Touching myself at night".

Anyway, time passed, quite alot of time infact, 2 years to be exact, & it was still there, it had grown, it was still to painful to pop despite numerous attempts. I'd even tried popping it using a pin with no joy! Then one day, I'd had enough. I'm not sure what inspired me to do it, it wasn't painful or uncomfortable, but I wanted the fucker out, & I wasn't gonna rest till it was. So I went for it! Erection caused, I placed the fingernails of my index fingers either side & I squeezed. Hard. It hurt, it hurt alot, but I kept squeezing, probably for nearly a minute, it was agonising, but I wasn't giving up. Then I felt it, it was like a mini eruption, but it was out finally.

I looked down at my fingernail & on it was a thing. A browny, yellowy green thing! It was huge. Well, not huge as such, but huge considering it was in the skin on the shaft of my penis! It was the size of a small ball bearing, about 4-5mm in diameter & the relief I felt now that it was out was immeasurable. It was then I looked down at my now flaccid penis, & was shocked to see a trickle of blood entering my pubes, clearly eminating from a small but very visible hole. I was very light headed all of a sudden.

Length? About 6 inches if I round up!
(, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 13:13, 3 replies)
Sex game gone wrong.
My mate got rushed to hospital last night with a toy horse stuffed up his ass.

He's in a stable condition.
(, Thu 5 Aug 2010, 9:55, 3 replies)
I wish I'd looked after me teeth.
I had a toothache. Hell, don’t we all sometimes. Went to the dentist and one of my lower Molars had to come out. There and then.

So, extraction it was. 7 injections it took. After the 7th she told me to sit in the waiting room to allow it, them, to take enough effect, I started to panic that my throat would close up due to and overdose of anaesthetic. Swallowing became an audible sound to all around me as panic started to set in.
However, the extraction went ok. Didn’t feel anything. Tooth out. Cool. Got the info on how to look after it and on a Wednesday afternoon, went home to rest.

It hurt a bit the next 2 days, but felt worse on Friday. But then of course it did! I just had a tooth wrenched out of my jaw with a big pair of forceps. I slept fitfully Friday night and woke up in horrible pain. Figured I would spend the day chilling, watch Saturday Kitchen, other assorted rubbish and eat paracetamol and ibuprofen every 2 hours. Shit, it hurt, really bad. Figured I should stop being a pussy and get on with it. It would feel better soon. Right?
By Sunday afternoon I’m crying like a baby, crawling round on the floor. Eating tablets by the handful and calling NHS direct. I get the advice that it’s normal after an extraction to feel pain and feel like a ridiculous big girls blouse for calling in the first place.
Sunday night. I’m sweating, incoherent, crying, talking to myself in a pathetic ‘What’s happening, I think I’m dying, I’m so scared’ kind of way, and have swallowed enough medication to surely be considered a suicide risk.

Monday morning get on the phone to the dentist. There is NO FUCKING WAY that woman is not giving me an appointment right there and then. Then after sobbing, pleading, begging, crying, threatening her with my imminent death. Threatening HER with death. I somehow find myself at the surgery.

Lovely dentist turns to me as I open the door ’How are you doing then. Oh. Are you…?
‘Help me, please, help me’ and collapse onto the end of her chair.
Not my proudest moment ever, but I am so pale, she can almost see through me. And I’m drenched in sweat.
She helped me into the seat and had a look.

I had ‘dry socket’. It happens in about 5% of extractions, particularly in the bottom jaw. The clot of blood that forms in the extraction hole, between the bone and the gum that helps the connective tissue to heal can become dislodged, or not form at all, leaving no protection, and exposing the bone and nerve endings leading to inflammation.
Or, to a hoard of angry mouth Numbskulls with red-hot pokers and ice axes. All intent on burning and digging their way through your bone and into the side of your face.

The only help they could give was a good clean out, and to stuff the offending hole full of gauze covered in oil of cloves and zinc oxide. Which lovely dentist lady did to the sounds of me moaning.
As awful as it sounds, the relief was almost immediate.

It still throbbed awfully, but I cried. I sat, in front of my dentist, and cried. When she had finished I stood up, and fell over.


Still. Turned out nice in the end.
(, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 3:12, Reply)
The sulphuric -hydrochloric acid- goldfish incident
Back in the day I used to acid etch swords and viking headwear with pretty nordic patterns.
Brass was a piece of piss, ferric chloride used to etch circuit boards did a good job.
You got it splashed onto your skin and as long as you washed it off right away, nothing more damaging than a yellow stain on the skin.
I did once get it splashed into my eye, but the guy with me pushed my head into a sink full of cold water.
A short trip to A&E afterwards with eye drops sorted it out, uncomfortable yes but Ive had worse period pains.
But etching hard steel called for more drastic measures.
I dont know how we ( myself and one other) ended up with this but a solution of sulphuric and hydrochloric acid ( if I remember correctly) seemed the right thing to use, and it did give fantastic results
Carefully mixed according to instructions in a big glass vat.
At first I treated it with utmost respect and fear.
Goggles, gloves, tongs to lower the items into the acid bath, a vat of water close by to dunk the steel into afterwards..
But familiarity breeds contempt and after a couple of weeks I got blase.
Specially as the orders came through thick and fast after folks saw the initial results.
So one afternoon Ive got a pile of swords to etch, dip in acid, then water.
Put it down and pick up the next one.
After several water dips, it should have been changed for a fresh vat but we were on a roll.
I picked up another sword, went to dip it into the vat of acid and somehow managed to knock it against the glass rim, which shattered.
Acid poured out.
We jumped back and yelped as the brickwork started to smoke and dissolve right in front of us.
We are standing there congratulating ourselves at a lucky escape, then going WTF is that smell?
That smell is my shoes disintigrating
Whats that noise?
Thats me screaming as my shoes melt and the acid hits my feet.
He throws the vat of water onto my feet but unfortunately theres a bit more acid than water in it by now and it really doesnt help.
I'm trying to get my shoes off but the laces are a melted mess and my fingers are burning
Now this is all happening in a friends garden, he has a goldfish pond.
I jump into the pond.
Later in A&E the remains of my shoes are cut off, I have some superficial burns to my left foot and have lost one toenail, I'm crying like a baby but its deemed not worth my staying in overnight.
Taxied home after an injection, have painkillers, bandaged foot, some cream and a follow up appt for the next week.
Following day friend wants to know what happened to his garden wall and why are there dead goldfish floating in his pond?
meh!
(, Mon 2 Aug 2010, 2:50, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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