Friday, April 06, 2012


Minor out-patient thing. Get some lumps nipped. Nothing vile or dangerous. Mainly a victim of my limited vanity. Mom and April (my massage therapist) noticed one on my back. More pronounced after my weight loss. Couldn't bear the thought of somebody eyeballing it while I'm topless. At a race. Or training. Them wondering: What's that mutation he's sporting? So out it comes.

Bit of a wait. But interesting discovery. My physiological stats are quite excellent. Blood pressure: 125 over 72. Resting heart rate: 56. Nurse commented: You have the stats of an athlete. Told her: Wish I could perform like one.

Eventually, made it back to the operating room.Cold and comfortable. Nurse takes a razor to my belly. And back. Shaving off two thirds of my body hair in order to operate on a patch of skin the size of a quarter. Doc "numbs" my abdomen first. Trying not to breath. Trying not to pull away as the needle bites. One. Two. Three times. Then I hear the tone of the cautery. Knowing he's slicing me open. Not feeling, but still knowing. Something warm slides trickles. A daub of cotton from the nurse. And he says, "It's out." Thankfully I don't feel the stitches. 

Then over to the mutation on my freshly-shaved back. (Didn't even know I had hair there!) One. Two. Three "Big Sticks" from the needle. The third biting deep. Heat spreading briefly before I'm numbed again. Familiar tone. He's cutting. I imagine a whiff of charred flesh wafts past me. The tone changes, even higher pitched. For the briefest microsecond, I light up with pain. Like a towel snapping my ass in the locker room. Gone before my voice can find a scream. Not sure what happened there, but it (thankfully) only happened once. Then the stitching. Many more, this time. "I put some extra in there," he says. So I can train sooner. No stitches on the outside. Medical Super Glue. It will "flake off" in a week, Nurse says. Lower the table. Unfasten the grounding strap. And I'm done.

No sedation means no delay. I change into my street clothes. Sign a document that proves I survived. And off to work I go. 

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