I lost another part of me today.
This time it was part of my back -- a dysplastic nevus that rated “severe” on the spectrum of atypical moles trying to turn into skin cancer. My dermatologist biopsied the spot a couple months ago and gave me the option of going to a plastic surgeon to ensure that it was entirely removed.
Being in a plastic surgeon’s office was a weird experience. The continuous video promoting various creams and injections didn't make me feel any better about my own 41-year-old face, which was free of its usual make-up. I found myself looking at other people in the waiting room and wondering why they were there -- breast implants, liposuction, face lift, dyspastic nevus? And then wondering what they assumed I was there for -- which, let’s face it, would be a boob job if they were paying any attention.
I took myself to the appointment after convincing my husband I could handle it on my own. The nurse had assured me it was a simple, quick procedure and I’d be fine to drive and carry on with my day. Just an inch-long incision in the upper left quadrant of my back, no big deal.
Except that once I was lying on my stomach on the operating table feeling the bizarre tugging sensation of stitches on numb skin, I started having flashbacks. Having had two c-sections, I’m all too familiar with that feeling that my skin has turned to thick, tough leather that’s being stretched, shoved and pulled in new directions. At least this time there wouldn’t be a newborn to take care of afterward.
The whole procedure took less than 30 minutes, including check-in and check-out paperwork. It wasn’t until after the surgery was completed and I was trying to pencil in the post-op appointment on my calendar that I realized my hands were shaking.
Guess this means I don’t have the stamina for that boob job after all.