Really? I Said "Yes," To This?

Yesterday I once again submitted myself to the hands of another skilled professional.  I do this, every time, with great trepidation; I hate this part of my life.  I often berate myself for allowing these people to do with my flesh as they will; I hate the loss of control.  I hate the barbarity, while admiring the deftness, training and courage of the people to whom I so willingly (and unwillingly) give my body. They are surgeons.

I had a basal cell carcinoma, first biopsied by a blade and then later removed.  The biopsy was a "shave biopsy."  When I shave, I glide a razor over the very surface of the skin, when a Dermatologist shaves, a hole is created; then the pathology report arrives.  Cancer, but the very best kind; basal cell is very curable and is to be expected in transplant recipients.  I am at forty times greater risk of skin cancer; I bathe in sunscreen.  Nevertheless, I had a small lesion. I would be awake for the removal performed under a local; I would so much rather be asleep. You may now start clucking like a chicken to mock me, for I am a chicken.

My husband went with me, though the nurse said I would be able to drive (it would have been an interesting ride).  I am so glad he went with me. I do not react well to epinephrine which is added to the lidocaine.  When I start out scared and then add a stimulant, the result is not pretty; sweaty hands, racing heart, shaking - pathetic.  My husband held my hand and also watched the procedure, he's pretty amazing that way.  I was glad he watched, I certainly did not; I am not amazing that way. Having done so, he could give me information afterwards.  It is not my imagination, that is a bigger incision than I expected. I hope I am safe from the basal cell nonsense now.

I am delighted to report that my surgeon used glue to close the three inch wound.  There will be no stitch removal, I have almost no pain, and it will, eventually be a nice line of a scar, rather than Frankenstein's sutures. Still in all, while I am very grateful to be relieved (fingers crossed) of this illness, I am still amazed that I walked into a room, with a slop bucket on the floor for my body's spillage, and said "Please cut me open and tear away part of my arm."  I know that part had cancer, but it still sits uneasily in my mind. I thanked the doctor, his nurses and assistants, they did an amazing job. They have my loyalty and my admiration, I do not have their courage, only a patient's courage (such as it was, trembling and sweating, rather like my dog at the vet).

The long and the short of it all: I hate what happens in surgery, but the people who practice their skill on me have saved my life, several times.  I just wish it would get easier and less frightful. Advice: wear sunscreen, and try to accept (better than I, tremble, tremble) what comes your way.