I Have Been Surgerized.
I had three moles removed from the upper left side of my back on Monday. The actual removal wasn't all that awful, I'm happily surprised to report. I lay on my stomach on the tabley bed thing and the doctor put a big sheet of papery stuff with a hole in it on my back. The hole went over the mole (poetry!) and the top part of the papery thing covered my face. The nurse told me she could fold that back for me if it was bothering me. Um, no. I liked it right where it was, thank you very much. All I could see was light shining through the lovely white paper. There were absolutely no needles under there, and absolutely no needles was exactly what I wanted to see.
We started out with three shots, which I am convinced went straight through the moles. Then there was a lot of pulling and prodding and cold damp stuff. It hurt once, with the last one. I squeaked. It felt like the doctor poured something cold and wet on my back, and then it didn't hurt anymore. After about twelve hours, or possibly 20 minutes, I was finished.
"I'll just clean your back up for you before I bandage you up," the nurse said. I thought it was very nice of her to be concerned about my clothes. Until, "We don't want you to walk through the waiting room and scare everyone else away." Dear god. I sat on the tabley bed thing for about ten minutes waiting to not be shaky and spinny anymore, and then off I went.
The three removed blobs, which the doctor and nurse were very careful not to show me, have been sent to a lab for god knows what sort of testing. I go back in two weeks to have my stitches out and to find out if I have cancer. I'm fairly certain, for no good reason at all, that I don't. As a result, I'm far more freaked out by these stitches than by the threat of disease.
And the stitches? Holy Christ they itch. Or maybe it's the tape from the bandages that itches. Whatever the case, something back there itches so horribly that it's all I can do not to scratch my back with a spaghetti spoon thingy. Except I have The Fear, and I just know if I so much as rub the edge of a Band-Aid just a little with my finger the stitches will rip out, my back will unzip, and my skin will all fall off. And also it will hurt.
You know how I know it will hurt? Because right now, everything does. Washing the dishes hurts. Putting my socks on hurts. Stretching, petting the cat, and opening my soda hurt. Sleeping hurts. This is because I'm so full of The Fear that all of my me is all clenched up trying to be still and not stretch anything that when I finally wake up, everything is all cramped and miserable. Do not want.
My shower this morning was an ordeal. It involved a lot of conversation with myself.
The trista: Oh god, I cannot do this.
The trista: Oh, just get in there and have your shower.
The trista: But what if I get my back wet?
The trista: Um, yeah, that's pretty much the goal of a shower. The wetting and the washing. That's what we're here for.
The trista: But what if it hurts?
The trista: Then it hurts. Get in.
The trista: Fine. I'm getting in.
The trista: And stop whining.
The trista: I'm not speaking to you any more.
The trista: You won't hear any complaints from me.
So I had my shower and dragged clothing onto my carcass and propelled myself out the door and to the bus stop, and now here I am, at work.
I spent yesterday on the couch, watching the end of season three and the beginning of season four of Smallville because Smallville doesn't make me hurt. Except Lois Lane, who really is kind of painful. It's a shame I already know she doesn't die. If I didn't have that knowledge already I could at least hope that the next episode would be the one. Ah well. There's still Lex, at least, and he makes up for the presence of Lois.
I have lost my train of thought entirely. And I'm not even on pain medication. Clearly I need a bagel.
We started out with three shots, which I am convinced went straight through the moles. Then there was a lot of pulling and prodding and cold damp stuff. It hurt once, with the last one. I squeaked. It felt like the doctor poured something cold and wet on my back, and then it didn't hurt anymore. After about twelve hours, or possibly 20 minutes, I was finished.
"I'll just clean your back up for you before I bandage you up," the nurse said. I thought it was very nice of her to be concerned about my clothes. Until, "We don't want you to walk through the waiting room and scare everyone else away." Dear god. I sat on the tabley bed thing for about ten minutes waiting to not be shaky and spinny anymore, and then off I went.
The three removed blobs, which the doctor and nurse were very careful not to show me, have been sent to a lab for god knows what sort of testing. I go back in two weeks to have my stitches out and to find out if I have cancer. I'm fairly certain, for no good reason at all, that I don't. As a result, I'm far more freaked out by these stitches than by the threat of disease.
And the stitches? Holy Christ they itch. Or maybe it's the tape from the bandages that itches. Whatever the case, something back there itches so horribly that it's all I can do not to scratch my back with a spaghetti spoon thingy. Except I have The Fear, and I just know if I so much as rub the edge of a Band-Aid just a little with my finger the stitches will rip out, my back will unzip, and my skin will all fall off. And also it will hurt.
You know how I know it will hurt? Because right now, everything does. Washing the dishes hurts. Putting my socks on hurts. Stretching, petting the cat, and opening my soda hurt. Sleeping hurts. This is because I'm so full of The Fear that all of my me is all clenched up trying to be still and not stretch anything that when I finally wake up, everything is all cramped and miserable. Do not want.
My shower this morning was an ordeal. It involved a lot of conversation with myself.
The trista: Oh god, I cannot do this.
The trista: Oh, just get in there and have your shower.
The trista: But what if I get my back wet?
The trista: Um, yeah, that's pretty much the goal of a shower. The wetting and the washing. That's what we're here for.
The trista: But what if it hurts?
The trista: Then it hurts. Get in.
The trista: Fine. I'm getting in.
The trista: And stop whining.
The trista: I'm not speaking to you any more.
The trista: You won't hear any complaints from me.
So I had my shower and dragged clothing onto my carcass and propelled myself out the door and to the bus stop, and now here I am, at work.
I spent yesterday on the couch, watching the end of season three and the beginning of season four of Smallville because Smallville doesn't make me hurt. Except Lois Lane, who really is kind of painful. It's a shame I already know she doesn't die. If I didn't have that knowledge already I could at least hope that the next episode would be the one. Ah well. There's still Lex, at least, and he makes up for the presence of Lois.
I have lost my train of thought entirely. And I'm not even on pain medication. Clearly I need a bagel.