CAUTION: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT

Things are always dramatic in my life. It's like I am genetically programmed for it. Whether I create it from my own person, or the wind blows it in, I got it. This weeks headline: the burn.
I was at work on Thursday night when my loving hubby texts me that he had spilled a boiling hot cup-o-doodles on his nearly bare thigh and it was burned pretty bad. I received this picture a few minutes later (which to be honest with you doesn't even come close to how bad it really is. The white you see are chunks of skin. When I got home it was seeping a severely blistered). I called him to see if I should come home and felt he needed to go to the hospital. He swore he was fine a million times (shock anyone??) And so I stayed. An hour later another text: I think I need to go to the ER... I was thankfully able to get the night shift to come in early (but not without the obvious drama that continued into the next days shift...) and my sister came to hang with the sleeping kiddos while we went to the ER at nearly midnight.
It was quite possibly the fastest ER visit on record. They got him in, gave him a painful tetanus booster, pain meds, silver-something cream, wrapped it up and sent us home.
One would think an 8 inch circular burn on the thigh wouldn't be so difficult to manage but boy, it is. No bending, squatting, flexing, laying, scratching, dressing or even goosebumping that leg without agony. The bandages won't stay on due to the location and as the skin continues to fall off, the wound (part of the healing process) becomes more painful and prone to infection.
I cannot believe the levels of emotion that comes with this kind of thing. It's exhausting, depressing and at times heart breaking to deal with. I know it could be so much worse, but I hate seeing my husband hurt so much. And I hate that there is really nothing anyone can do to help except wait.
I don't say this to get sympathy or whatever, (who knows how many will actually read this anyway since I rarely write to the public anymore) I just needed to document the story of the gruesome scar that will be left behind from a measly 29cent-cup-of-freaking-noodles. Ouch.