Halfway through another week. At work, we refer to this as “workweek thirty-one.” Not sure about you guys, but all I can think about when I see that number is the fact that, somehow, we’ve made it more than halfway through the year of Our Lord two-thousand and nine. Think about that; more than halfway. It boggles.
Today I had a small cyst removed from my left leg. I’ve had this thing since high school (when it was much smaller, about the size of a BB), but in the last five years it’s grown a little too large for my comfort. So, after talking to one reluctant surgeon (why remove it if it’s not causing me pain or suffering?) I found one who was willing (you wanna get cut?, OK) and went in today for the super-fast super-easy procedure. The only thing is, with me, anything involving my own blood or “fleshwork” is always a trial. Why? Because, as manly as I consider myself to be… when I’m personally involved in the gore, it’s almost a sure bet I’m going to want to faint.
No joke. It’s happened almost as often as I’ve been exposed to personal carnage, however controlled the environment. It happened when I had an ingrown toenail cut out as a teenager; they had to go old-school that time and break out the smelling salts to bring me back out of the ether. It happened when I split my head open diving into a too-shallow springs. It even happens, to a much lesser degree, anytime I have to give blood (I can feel the symptoms coming on, but they never fully manifest). Here’s how it goes down: First, I begin feel a bit “off,” disconnected. Next, I begin sweating; just a sheen of perspiration to start but soon enough turning into full torrents of gym-worthy sweat. Finally, I can actually feel the blood draining from my head and face – to the point where I eventually realize: “Uh-oh, this ain’t gonna end good unless I lie down fast.”
Anyway, I’m familiar enough with my reaction in these situations that I now warn the doctors in advance that I’m a lightweight. Universally, they seem to appreciate the heads-up. Today, the doc smiled and said, “Yeah, a typical man. Males have a much harder time with it than do women, for whatever reason.” Humph.
In the end though, I bravely maintained consciousness (mostly by choosing to not even watch the procedure, lest I see any messiness and completely lose it). And, after about fifteen minutes of sweating and metered breathing while I felt my skin being tugged and heard tissue being snipped with scissors – it was all over. I had to recline fully on the little doctor’s table and concentrate on not passing out. I tried singing a song in my head to take my mind (and ears) of the hacking and snipping that was going on in my filleted leg.
OK, so I’m a wimp. I just can’t handle it. Goodnight.
Also written on this day...
- I just waked up! - 2008
- I feel like I deserve a beer tonight - 2005
- double-header - 2004