When I saw my doctor in June, I was given antibiotics to kill the family of spiders that were nesting under my skin. Two months later, when the spiders were still bubbling, my doctor said, “Our choices are to wait it out to see if the cyst goes down, or have it removed by a surgeon.” I told him I wanted to wait it out, and he gave me three months in which to wait.
Nine months have passed. (Nine months in which I could have had a baby! But I didn’t!) The cyst is still there, and it’s big and hard and it sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night to say, “Hey! I’m ITCHY! Poke! Poke!”
Long story short: I saw my doctor last week. He referred me to one of the only plastic surgeons covered by my insurance.
Receptionist at the Plastic Surgeon Office (RatPSO): I’m sorry. He operates only from the neck up.
Me: I can stand on my head for twenty minutes.
RatPSO: I’m sorry?
Me: I make jokes when I’m nervous. It’s one of my best and worst traits.
This morning I met with a general surgeon. She walked into the room, asked me to pull my pants down, touched the cyst, and said, “Yep. Let’s slice that thing off.” On May 25th, I will drop the kids off at school, drive myself to the hospital, get a bunch of shots to numb my hip, lie very still so they can “slice that thing off” and stitch it up, and drive myself home just in time to pick the kids up from school and then volunteer at a fifth grade recognition ceremony. It’s called being STALWART, people. If the doctor allows me to bring the cyst home, I’m going to stick it in the dehydrator and make a special treat for the puppy. (It’s all about sharing DNA and wearing Birkenstocks. Am I right? Yes. I’m right.) (I made stew out of my placenta and my family LOVED it.) (I make jokes when I’m nervous! Remember?!)
Speaking of the puppy, this is what’s happening right now:
She’ll be starting school on Sunday afternoon.