Bop-a-Mole

In all the excitement that were the holidays (and the holidays were very nice, I might add), I have neglected my little blog. Poor blog. I'm sorry! But the nice thing was that I pretty much neglected all things computer and email related for at least a week. Ahhh, heaven. Of course, I kept tabs on it all with my Blackberry, but say what you will about Crackberries, they do keep me from being tied to my computer every damn day.

When last I wrote (before the whole Clean thing), I had just had my icky mole scraped out (blech), leaving me with an almost-2-inch, stitched-up, bandaged-over hole smack dab in the middle of my neck. When the bandages weren't on, and if you didn't look too closely, the row of stitches looked something like a gang tattoo written in some kind of ancient Chinese type. Either way, very attractive, and not exactly they look I was going for when I picked out the cute little scoop-neck sweater for the holidays. But, in the grand scheme of things, all was good.

I was, however, more anxious about the biopsy results. It took them a week to gt back to me, and after I few rounds of phone tag, I finally got in touch with the PA at the dermatologist's office. Here's the main part of the conversation:

PA Dude: We got the results.
Me: Oh, good?
PA Dude: Yes, and the good news is that we got it all out and the margins were negative. [Whatever the heck that means.]
Me: OK. And ...? [waiting for the bad news]
PA Dude: And ... Well, you have a follow-up appointment scheduled, right?
Me: Yes. And ...? [are they really going to make me wait until the follow-up to tell me the bad news]
PA Dude: Well, good. We will see you then.
Me: OK. But wait. Was it all good news, then?
PA Dude: Yeah. [not even a hesitation, like of course I should know this]
Me: Oh. Whew. Good. [Mentally screaming at him that he really needs to brush up on his "phoneside" manners and perhaps rethink the way he words things.]
Click.

So, very long story longer, I am fine. The mole is gone. However, I have to keep an eye on it for the rest of my life, as it is the aggressive (but localized) kind that can come back. And if this means another surgery on my trachea in the same spot, I am not going to be a happy camper!

And don't even get me started on the squeamish that was the removal of the stitches on Christmas morning. All I can say about that is thank God for the super-strong Bloody Mary my mom concocted for me.

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.

OK, so maybe not this old and wrinkled;

p.s. this was a great scene in the movie, if it's the one I'm thinking of

Squeamish Cell Carcinoma

So, I had a mole removed last week. Actually, they weren't sure if it was a mole or a wart or an infected whitehead or what. So they scraped it off and sent it off for a biopsy, and that was that. Or so I thought!

Isn't it nice to be woken up first thing on a Monday morning with a call from your dermatologist telling you that the mole was indeed a mole and it was squamous cell carcinoma. I took it all pretty well. I am usually the one telling others that the two most common types of skin cancer really aren't that bad, as long as you catch them in time. It's the scary moles or scrapes that show up on your toe or your buttcrack or your armpit that (in my vast medicinal knowledge) are the scary ones. The horrible, terrible, very bad, no good malignant melanoma. So yesterday I was fine.

But this morning I woke up with every worst-case scenario running through my head while I overanalyzed every lump, bump, and scrape on my body. So thank God the appointment is in two hours, so I can ask all my questions, and they can reassure me and tell me that everything is going to be OK.

Until them, wonderful Mr. J is taking me out for breakfast and then to Home Depot (ain't he sweet) to keep my mind off things. And right now he is on the phone planning a possible trip down the Grand Canyon next summer! And if we get that trip (which would be awesome), I will be packing my entire dry bag full of sunscreen.