snitches get stitches

I had seriously been dreading this procedure to remove the rest of the cancer, or at least the rest of that particular one.

I was out of the waiting room lickety-split.  I didn't even get the WiFi password for my phone before I was being whisked down to my exam room.  The nurse was explaining things, telling me where to sit, and handing me a gown when the doctor came in.  He started asking me questions and lifted the back of my t-shirt to see.  He said I could keep it on and forego the gown if I wanted.  That sounded good to me.  Perhaps he was trying to save on his laundry bill, but I was comfier.  Fortunately my shirt was black because I bled on it.  What a surprise.

Next thing I know, I was face-down with needles in my back getting numbed.  I asked for extra because sometimes I metabolize anesthetia faster than others.  He talked for a minute and cut into me a minute later.  Eleven minutes after I had walked into the office, my cancer was out.  However, I didn't know that until they verified it with a microscope and pathology-trained dermatologist onsite.  It's why I opted for this method.  They came in about 30 minutes later to tell me.  Yippee!  Such a relief.

But, I still needed to wait for the plastic surgeon to stitch me up all pretty-like.

That wait was over an hour.  Apparently there were complications with the previous patient.  I didn't mind waiting for someone who took their time and did a good job.  I amused myself by texting friends, snooping through the examination room, and quietly crying.

While being stitched up finally, it turned out the plastic surgeon and I had met previously, luckily on good terms.  An awkward (on my part) conversation ensued.  Somehow I prefer my medical professionals to not socialize with me.  Yes, I know they're people.  And I don't mind socializing with other medical people, just not mine.  It's weird for me.