Thursday afternoon, I’m having a piece of skin removed. There’s a medical term for it, actually two — one for the type of piece of skin and another for the procedure.
Even though the very kind, thorough, and gentle doctor told me both their names, I have no recollection of what she said. All I remember from the conversation is when she said biopsy, which caught me off guard.
I’ve had this tiny extra piece of skin, which is how I refer to it, for many years. It’s never grown since I noticed it and doesn’t bother me.
Vanity motivated me to look into having it removed. I never thought this tiny extra piece of skin could be anything but that.
I’m not worried. The doctor is allowing three weeks to pass from the time of my visit till the procedure. We know doctors don’t wait if they have any concerns.
This fall, I’m also having something else removed. On my face! I guess that’s why I refer to that one as this thing on my face. No one but me knows it’s there, if I don’t point it out. That one has a different medical term but, like the conversation about extra piece of skin, I only remember biopsy.
The removal procedure, whatever it’s called, for this thing on my face, will be the same. I’m even less concerned about this one, because it was originally scheduled six weeks after my visit, before super vanity kicked in. I requested to reschedule when I realized the bandage I’ll need to wear for a week would still be on my face a few days before Labor Day. Sorry, but I have plans.
Biopsy is a scary word, even when you’re sure like me . . . 99% sure everything will be all right.
As I’ve gotten older, too many of my friends have had bouts with cancer and even more have had many a biopsy.
My good friend, and cancer survivor, just got great — benign — results on her latest biopsy. Of course, I told her right away that everything would be fine, but I admit I was a little concerned while we waited to hear.
Maybe I disconnected during my doctor’s visit, because hearing biopsy sometimes brings me back to waiting for the results after my throat surgery. After months of poking and swiping, measuring and guessing, blood test after blood test, my doctor told me with tear-filled eyes that the team of experts decided I most likely had a disease from a list I care not to repeat.
They prepared me for the worst and sent me to pre-op.
That night, I went for a haircut, had it nearly shaved to my scalp. It wasn’t going to do that to me, at least not to my hair. At the time, someone very close to me was battling another version of it. Day after day, I saw what it did to her. (May she rest in peace.)
When you’re waiting for biopsy results, every minute seems like an hour, every day feels like a week.
I remember the moment I found out. I was still in excruciating pain, couldn’t even whisper, and was preparing myself for the worst. Waiting for the call. That call.
I never could have imagined a stranger or better surprise.
My doctor — the sought-after, top-notch, genius, chief of ENT Surgery — called to tell me how happy he was that they were all wrong. I didn’t have any of the diseases on the list I care not to repeat.
Simply, I’m allergic to myself. I kid you not. Well . . . that’s how I describe it.
I have several allergies, including a very annoying one to dust mites. But, I’m also allergic to the mucus my own body produces as a result of my dust mite allergy. Seriously.
This ridiculous biological malfunction wreaked havoc on my throat, my health, and my life for months, but I’ll take the absurd over the fatal any day.
There I was with a nearly shaved head, and all I eventually had to deal with was life with less carpet, little to no curtains, and more cleaning.
With such a bizarre and funny outcome, one could think hearing biopsy wouldn’t have any effect on me.
But, biopsy is still biopsy. Someone is removing a piece of you and examining it or, as we’ve come to understand, looking for bad things.
Each word carries its own weight. Some, like biopsy, are heavier than others.
So, extra piece of skin and this thing on my face will both be removed by some procedure, and I will have two biopsies.
I’m sure I’ll be fine. God willing, I’ll be laughing at this, too, very soon.
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