You Look Kinda Moley: Minus One

Yeah...so, follow-up didn't go as planned.

I sat perched on the Dear Doctor's examining table, calmly reading. I was as confident as the day is long - my thirty-something acne seems to have resolved itself (and now I have a secret weapon at my disposal if and when it chooses to rear its ugly head and attempt to take back my face) and I know the few moles in question residing on my back have not changed since the day God put them there. I'm good. This will be a breeze, and I'm not just referring to the back of my paper gown.

After a quick exchange of pleasantries, I proudly declared success over midlife pimples and submitted to another full body scan. Again, she checked on the three sister moles through her little eye piece that looks better suited for inspecting diamonds than epidermis. As she begins to dismiss me again under the agreement that I will "watch" my back - I, honestly and ignorantly,

reply, "Well, I'll do my best...but I can't really watch it. It's on my back."

SCREEEEEEEEEEEECH!

The plan abruptly halts.

"Yeah...I'd better take that one off," Dear Doctor nonchalantly declares.

NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

What have I done? I take it back!!! I'll watch it! How can I watch it?!? Maybe I can rig up my magnifying mirror on a broomstick and stand naked in my bathroom...backwards...I'll get FireDaddy to install a three-way mirror like in dressing rooms....with magnification...NO! I'll take pictures of it...and track it on my calendar!...I'll start a wiki! I'll...I'll...I'll....

"No! You can't do that! I'll watch it! How can I watch it? What do I need to do?" as I, literally, stomp my feet and bounce up and down like a three year-old mixing up a fit. My Dear Doctor calmly ignored me and offered her solution: "I can give you numbing cream. Do you want some numbing cream?"

HELL YES, I WANT NUMBING CREAM! WITH A SIDE OF ANESTHESIA!!! CAN YOU PUT ME UNDER FOR THIS???

As I lay in my nakedness, awaiting my torture, I tried to control my breathing. Think yoga. Think lamaze. You can do this. You've had two kids. You made it to transition at home by yourself. You can do this. This isn't as bad as you're imagining. Just breathe.

I tried distracting myself with my book. This is bullsh*t. I can't read right now!

I tried distracting myself with talking....but my Dear Doctor kept talking to Little Nursie-Poo about the procedure. "We're gonna do a thingamajigger. Don't get that yet, I need to figure out how to do this...I think I want a 6 mm...no 8 mm. How much longer do you think we can talk and stall? Do you think she's crazy yet? ...Just a few more seconds. There. She's really freaking out now...Let's do this.

"You're going to feel a little stick."

Yep. I felt it. What they didn't say next was that this would take 5 solid minutes of cutting and stitching and listening to her narration of what she was doing, which, just in case you were wondering, I really didn't need to know. She did, thankfully, stop telling me after I blurted out "Just stop talking about it and quit touching me!"

Meanwhile, as the nausea overtook my body, I got the added joy of staring into a bio-hazard trash can the entire time. Yummy. Latex gloves, used cotton and gauze inside an intimidating red bag to waiting to catch my barf. Just the thought of having all that biohazard in my face was enough to make me consider gagging myself to get it over with and out of the air I was breathing. Ick.

When Dear Doctor announced "Just one more stitch" for the SECOND TIME (liar), I considered stretching my arm behind my back and swatting her away.

Finally, it was over. I lay on the table in the prone position, with a lovely new black bow tied to my back. I listened to the darling Little Nursie-Poo talk about her own fear of needles and getting blood drawn by a young hottie recently. This cute little thing is like fifteen years younger than me and I'm the one on the table with my moon to the sky, face a peutrid shade of green, trying not to vomit. I really don't feel sorry for you, sweet thing. Been there, done that.

After another five minutes of recovery (sucking on a peppermint, sipping tap water from a styrofoam cup with a ridiculously UNdamp paper towel on my head, listening to Little Nursie-Poo tell me all about college and working at the front desk and how hard it is to fit in gym time...blah blah blah...), I reclaimed my dignity and declared my own recovery. I quickly doffed

my paper garmets and donned my way cuter navy knit skirt, navy floral peasant blouse, and the most adorable, envy of all, Payless sandals. I held my head high, pushed the peppermint candy to the other cheek, slung my "large & in charge" purse over my shoulder and proceeded to the check-out.

I scheduled my appointment to revisit the scene of the crime for stitch removal, payed the toll and, as I headed to the elevator, heard the not-so-kind lady at the front desk call out:

"Are you sure you're OK? You look kinda pale...."