Kidding.
Mostly.
This morning, at 10am, I get to go see my plastic
surgeon. Let me tell you. The fact that I have a plastic surgeon tickles me.
She’s not going to chop off my arm.* It’s a quick, 20
minute procedure to remove a lipoma (basically a fat tumor**) from my right
forearm. I could have ignored it, and I have for the last…8? years. The problem
is, it’s in that annoying spot where it rakes across the edge of my desk when I’m
working. And that, friends, is a painful annoyance I could do without.
So this morning, I’ll be headed to the Mayo Clinic to sit down, have my arm numbed up, and watch*** as my surgeon cuts a tiny slice in my arm, avoiding the vein this thing sits right underneath, and pulls the thing out. 4 stitches and I’ll be outta there. I’ve even been told I could drive myself away from the procedure. I’m not going to, but it’s nice to know I’ll be lucid enough to operate heavy machinery.
*Unless something goes terribly wrong.
**It’s benign and hereditary; mom had one in pretty much
the exact same spot.
*** Who am I kidding? I don’t even like watching the
needle hit me for the first 5 minutes of getting tattooed; I’m not going to
watch a scalpel slice me open!
Update: surgery went fine. Pulled three little nuggets out and sent them to pathology. 3 hours later and I'm just now starting to feel a hint of soreness.
Update: surgery went fine. Pulled three little nuggets out and sent them to pathology. 3 hours later and I'm just now starting to feel a hint of soreness.
