Joyce OreRipping off the bandage harder than it sounds


Following my annual flu shot, I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to remove a plastic bandage the nurse placed on my arm. My goal was to remove this with most of my skin intact. My endeavor was unsuccessful.

Inching the bandage off bit by bit didn’t work. Obviously, the skin in that particular area isn’t without a fair amount of hair, obviously much more than the male I live with has on the top of his head. I tried to be brave and jerk it off in one courageous sweep. When I regained consciousness, I was on the floor and the bandage was still intact.

I considered soaking my arm in the tub, but if my past experience was any indication, this rectangular piece of subtle plastic would adhere to my arm permanently and grow old with me.

What I don’t understand is that last night I needed a plastic bandage to cover a crack in the heel of my foot. The first thing about bandages is that they don’t come out of their packaging willingly, much like a baby coming out of a womb. It’s a messy process. After three attempts, I retrieved one that was mangled but still in reasonably in good shape.

I carefully applied an antibiotic to the wound that was growing longer and more painful by the minute, and delicately placed the bandage over what I felt was the infected area of my foot. I hadn’t taken three steps before the bandage fell off. I sat down, swung my foot over my knee again, tried to see over to the far side where this huge crack was located and tried again with a different bandage. As I stood up, the bandage fell off. I tried again with the same results.

The box was nearly empty when I had a thought. I removed the wrapping around the new bandage, then carefully placed it on the tattered one tightly clinging to my arm. They both fell off. One down, one to go.



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