Two things I had never done until this past Tuesday: kicked a clown in the groin or gotten stitches (among other things of course). I can tell you that as long as I don't have a seltzer bottle sprayed in my face that the first one shall remain incomplete, but I have officially ended my streak in life with no stitches. (Side note: I challenge you all to try and type "stitches" over and over again, so heretefore they shall be called "owies.")
But before he began, I wanted to test my BG right before the procedure, and then again right after to see if the Lidocaine, nerves, or minor pain would cause any sudden variances. He seemed interested too so I tested. 117.
The surgeon was very nice, and we shared some idle chit-chat while I lay prone on the little table and waited for my procedure to remove my third head, I mean my carcinoma, from my temple. We visited about manly things like college sports and tools and such. While I was waiting, I casually asked how much a jar of Lidocaine costs. No one seemed to know (or wanted me to know). They shared awkward glances and changed the subject. It seemed to be a bit like walking into a nuclear power plant and asking where the "off" button was. So we all seemed to decide that would be a good time to stick a giant needle in my head at least 67 times until it was nice and numb. After I was numb, he handed me a metal plate and told me to hold it very tight. I guess you just don't ask a lot of quesitons when a man is holding a scalpel to your temple.
He proceeeded to cut away a fairly good-sized piece of skin. I could feel the tugging and cutting, but it didn't hurt at all. Then he turned on some sort of electrical device and told me it would be used to seal off any bleeding. He also told me that if I let go of that metal plate while he was using it my heart would stop. Excuse me? It was rather if he was telling me to tie my shoes so I don't trip on my way out. I clung to that plate like Kate Winslet hung onto the wooden door in "Titanic." Then, reassured that my heart was still dutifully pumping away, I worried that this little death band-aid would damage my pump. So I asked "Will that thing damage my pump?" To which he replied, without missing a beat, "Hope not."
So the doc wrapped up the cutting and told me it was time for the owies. Eleven altogether that will have to be removed on Monday. He told me I could let go of the metal plate. I told him it was just fine where it was, thanks.
So now I have eleven owies on my right temple, and rather than telling people it's from a carcinoma, I tell them I got it in a fight with an Asian biker gang. "I got four of 'em before the fifth one gave me this!" Scars are sexy anyway, right?
Oh, and post-op BG? 117. Must've been the metal plate.