Ten years ago, I went to the dermatologist to have an unsightly mole removed from the back of my neck. The doc informed me that the mole didn’t look cancerous (if that is what I was concerned about) and that the removal of said nevi would be for purely aesthetic purposes. I was cool with that and gave the green light. He did, however, notice three other spots on my back that did not look as innocent and recommended their immediate removal for biopsy. He slashed them off and, when the test results came back one month later, told me that there was nothing to worry about. He proceeded to warn me about the dangers of sun exposure and how my skin type was particularly susceptible to all sorts of nasty sun-related scary stuff and how I should avoid the sun whenever possible, wear SPF 5 billion sunscreen, and always wear a shirt when on the beach or at the pool. I kindly thanked the gentleman for his educated words of warning and informed him that I was about to move to Barcelona where I would be joyfully spending the entirety of my days playing beach volleyball under the brilliant Spanish sun. He told me to get regular dermatological checkups. Our paths were never to cross again.
A couple of months ago, I was reminded of this sobering anecdote and said to myself, “Shit! I haven’t had a checkup in ten years!”. So I did.
The Spanish doc didn’t like the look of one particular spot that he found on my belly and sent me off to have it removed and biopsied. When I had arrived at the hospital this morning and was under the bright lights of the Minor Surgery Ward in my flattering dressing gown and bathing cap, the surgeon noticed another suspicious spot just inches away from the first little bugger. Between the two of us, we made the executive decision to just whack the both of them.
The doctor was surprised when she caught me watching her administer the local anesthetic. She said most people choose not to watch and those that do usually get woozy when the needle punctures the skin. I found it fascinating. I was probably a little nervous but I enjoyed the challenge of forcing myself to stay calm and watch. I guess they don’t like it when patients watch because she placed a cover over my belly before slicing and told me not to look. The anesthesia worked a treat and I didn’t feel a thing until she was stitching me up at the end and I felt the tugging.
The anesthesia started to wear off about an hour later. It vaguely felt like there was a pin sticking in me. A half an hour later, it felt like there were two pins. After that, it felt like the pins were being pulled apart while still in me. The next stage of consciousness felt like someone was pressing a finger into the hole still held open by those damn pins. Not overtly painful, mind you, but uncomfortable nonetheless. I hope nothing untoward happens in my sleep tonight. I’ve never had stitches before.
I should get the stitches out in 10 days and then I head back to the hospital in a couple of months to see if those ugly little belly spots were actually harbingers of some sort of vile cancer or if they were just innocent beauty marks. I’m not worried.
Jeez man, I hope it all turns out ok.
In the meantime, it seems all we do these days is send around You Tube links. Those guys must be rolling in it. But anyway, I hope this cheers you up:
Shoes
Bob
Why do you have to wait a couple of months before finding out if the spots were dangerous?
@Bob – Thanks. I hadn’t seen that in years! Made we go back and watch Muffins!
@Rebecca – I don’t know.
How in the world have you never had stitches before is my question?!
I attribute my three decades sans stitches to my cat-like reflexes, a keen awareness of my physical limitations, an uncanny ability to always land on my feet, and dumb luck.