Midnight Rambler: Pseudo-Stream of Consciousness and My Squemish Cells

The other day, I went in for the big removal of the ugly wartlike bump on my neck. Yay! Well, not really "yay!" because I don't like having people poking around my trachea (or is that my esophagus?) Either way, I have serious gag reflex issues, even if it's just someone touching my throat. (My theory: I was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Then, because I like cats, I decided that I was a cat who was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Yes, I am one odd duck ... or cat.) Anyway, "yay!" as in get this thing off me so it doesn't spread and become something horribly worse (i.e., one of my worst nightmares, which, surprisingly, is not about being strangled or hung or both).

This bump o' mine was smack dab in the middle of my neck, right where an Adam's apple would be if I had an Adam's apple. (Girls don't have those, right? Weird memory flash: When I was in junior high, I was kind of obsessed with Adam's apples and thought they were so sexy, and I wondered why I didn't have one, because if they were sexy on guys, wouldn't they be just as sexy on girls? I was such an odd child. The guy who triggered the whole Adam's apple fetish was the big brother in ET, who I thought was sooooo cute back in the day. Apparently I had a thing for scrawny guys with crooked teeth.)

Anyway, cutting this sucker out required all sorts of poking and prodding and drawing and digging and scraping and sewing, all on that ultra-sensitive area of my throat. Blech, ick, ew. I'm so glad I didn't throw up all over everyone. I kept trying not to think about what was happening right under my nose, but then one or the other of them (the doc or the assistant dude) would ask me a question. As soon as I talked, the muscles right under where they were working would move, and then I'd be aware that while I was talking and he was talking, my neck was open and he was in there scraping all around. Gross ... and kind of ouch!

And what were we talking about? Well, after confirming that I was OK and that I was fine with listening to Rush (not really, but it was better than bad Christmas music), the conversation moved on to U2, then Celine Deon and REO Speedwagon (what a weird playlist they had), and then somehow morphed into a discussion of the war in Afghanistan and Obama's Nobel Peace Prize and circled right back to U2, with the doc concluding that Bono should have got the Peace Prize instead. Whether I agree or not (and I pretty much do, and not cuz I love U2), who really cares? I mean, who has these sorts of conversations during a doctor's appointment?

Apparently I do! I still remember the pap smear appointment where the doc lady and her assistant gal were discussing lobster and steamed clams (really?!?), all while poking around in my nether regions. Then there was the time I was doing the whole IVF thing, and the doc and Mr. J were discussing Mr. J's clothing line and the fact that the doc knew a venture capitalist who might like to invest in it all. The investing never panned out AND the doc totally poked the very back of my uterus (ouch!) because she obviously wasn't paying attention to me. And this could possibly be one of the many reasons we don't have kids today (though that is a whole different discussion).

I am happy to report that according to Mr. J, the stitches all look nice and neat and clean, and according to the Doc, he got it all out (just waiting for the latest biopsy). So I'm healthy and happy, though not thrilled at all that every Christmas photo this year will feature me looking like F. Murray Abraham after the (fictional) throat slashing in Amadeus.