Going Under the Knife

Juan and I both had plastic surgery. A few months ago, I picked him up at work around lunch time, and we went for a consult. The doctor thoroughly looked us over, our bellies, backs, in our underclothes, between our toes and fingers, our arms, legs, faces, all over. While he was checking us out, he was coming up with a plan. "What plan?" you ask. Perky breasts for a mother of five with six years of nursing under her belt, er, bra? A flat belly for that same mother of five delivered by C-section? Liposuction to remove the insulation from muscles of the father of five?

We wish, and if we ever get some sort of windfall, maybe... But nope. It was all about moles. Juan had a spot on his face that was concerning him, so I suggested that we go together to a plastic surgeon several friends have used and who is a perfectionist. That way I could see what moles were of concern on him and he could do the same for me.

The spot on Juan's face, no biggie. However, he had two on his back that had to come off. I had a mole on my forehead and another on my chin that I have always had and that I have always hated. He asked about those and I said that I have always had them and that sometimes they itch. He told me that they had to come off. I was pleased as it meant I could have them removed and have insurance cover the procedure.

It was October when we arranged our appointments for the beginning of December, and we forgot all about them until after our Thanksgiving vacation to Florida. So of course, I was scrambling to find childcare for the day of my appointment.

On the day of the appointment my friend who had recommended the doctor drove me to his office located on-site at Kettering Hospital. I stood next to two patients wearing oxygen and their caregivers as I waited for the elevator. We climbed aboard the elevator and the stench of cigarettes was all around. Just before the doors closed another patient, shackled and escorted by a deputy sheriff, stepped in. They were all going to the fifth floor. I got off on four.

Once in the office I was moved a room where I changed into a gown and my vitals were taken. From there I went into the procedure room. There were three registered nurses in the room, but it was the doctor who inserted my IV and scrubbed my face three times. The nurses kept me warm with blankets pulled from the dryer. I chose not to be sedated, so besides being cold and shivering (before being packed in warm blankets) the most unpleasant part of the procedure was the needle that administered the local anesthetic in my forehead and chin. I had to keep my eyes (as if I'd want to see) closed so he put some sort of goo between my lids.

I didn't mind the time on the table because while it was not the most comfortable I have ever been, no one was asking anything of me, except to be still and close my eyes, and I enjoyed listening to the doctor and his nurses having a pleasant conversation across my face.

Then he began to cut and solder and sew, first my forehead, then my chin. With the exception of placing blankets around me, checking my blood pressure, and putting the metal plate under my bum, next my skin (to complete the circuit for the soldering), his nurses did not touch me. The doctor did it all, and when he was done, he bandaged me. And did he ever bandage me! Oh, how he bandaged me!

I found out just how bandaged I was when I went to the restroom while I waited for Juan to pick me up. It was shocking. I looked like I had had my head opened and then taped shut. I took a picture of myself with my phone and sent it to my mother with no message. She immediately called back to ask who was in the picture. When I replied it was me, she asked if I had been in a wreck. I reminded her that I had an appointment to have moles removed. "Oh," she said. "You know when you're all bandaged up like that I can really see John (my six-year-old son) in your face."

When Juan arrived to pick me up he was shocked into heavy laughter. This of course made me laugh which was probably frowned upon as frowning was frowned upon, as was chewing or too much talking according the discharge instructions I was given.

Then, there was the elevator ride to the first floor. There was an older couple on the elevator. The man looked from me to Juan and from Juan to me. "What did you do to her?" he asked. I said, "Well, I had a couple of moles removed," motioning to the places on my face. Looking at the bandage on my forehead he said, "That must have been some mole!"

So when we got off the elevator and started walking to the parking lot, we were both laughing. Well, Juan was really laughing. I was laughing with a stiff chin and hoping I wasn't causing any major scarring.

I have never felt the stares of others as I did that morning while we waited for my pain killer and antibiotic prescriptions to be filled. Juan and I grabbed a quick lunch, Juan a hamburger and a milkshake for me. Fellow diners did not even make any attempt to avert their eyes. I could see that they needed answers. Moles people! I had moles removed!

When the bandages came off two days later, I didn't look much better. I went from being a mummy mommy to being a Franken-mommy. That's a post for another day.