Mommy Untaped

Well, I have been untaped for just over a week now. I met with Dr. P. right after the first of the year. He was very pleased when he pulled the tape from my forehead, so pleased, in fact, he didn't need to see me again. As he was telling me how pleased he was, he was reaching for the tape and a pair of scissors. "Just sit up here on the table, and I will show you how to put this on now."

To refresh your memory, I had been sporting a single piece of tape placed horizontally across my incision. This time he placed one piece vertically on top of the incision and crossed that bit of tape with two more perpendicular pieces. Then he said, "I want you to keep tape on your chin as well." I looked at him and said, "Of course, because, why not?" When I asked how long I would have to wear it, he said, "Not long. Two weeks."

So, although, I could have gotten away without wearing the tape anymore, I wore it, like a good patient. If I took the tape off for a shower, Kate would immediately ask, "Where is your tape, Mommy?" When I ran into one of our pediatricians' nurses (with whom I had discussed the use of paper tape in reducing scarring as she was sporting a piece on a small burn during a recent office visit) in a grocery store last week, she asked about the tape as well. After six weeks, folks had grown accustomed to seeing me bandaged. I must say, though, it looks pretty darn good now and will only get better with time. Thank you Dr. P.! I am also happy to report that the pathology on the moles came back clean.

My doctor is as famous for his bandaging as he is for his higher than average success rate in ridding patients of cancerous moles and keeping infections away. He is P-A-R-T-I-C-U-L-A-R in a good way. A few of my friends and acquaintances (even other physicians) asked about my bandages and tape, and when I responded that I had seen a plastic surgeon, said, "Oh, you saw Dr. P., didn't you?"

Even today, as I am enjoying a few unfettered weeks, I am making arrangements for my plastic surgery appointment next Monday. Alas, it's still not for anything sexy, like new boobs or a tummy tuck, just more moles-- this time on my back.

I will probably be in a body cast.

Going Under the Knife: Part Deux

To refresh your memory, this was me right after my mole-ectomy. I published a much more flattering photo in my previous post. This is the photo sent from my Blackberry to Mama and Daddy, the one with the girl Mama didn't recognize.



I looked like this for two days. I had the procedure on a Wednesday. On Friday, I had to take John and Kate with me to see the doctor. John was very concerned that he was going see my blood. The kids were very (uncharacteristically when together) well-behaved before and during the "great unwrapping." My hair had not been washed since before going under the knife, and it was not only dirty, but parts of it were sticky and stiff from the cleansing agent Dr. P. had used to clean my face and neck. When he cut the bandages off and left the room, I quickly snapped a shot with my phone. I thought I looked better with the bandages on. You be the judge.


To me it looks like a mug shot, like the ones posted on the Dayton Daily News on-line. This is how I would imagine a caption like this would read: Woman, 37, charged with suspected drug use and resisting arrest. My forehead is still a bit swollen in this picture, which is probably why my eyes seem to be two different sizes.

From the doctor's office, I drove John to school and then straight to my hairdresser friend's shop. I have naturally big and often frizzy hair. Once, when I went in for an appointment, I brushed my hair out. I looked like Roseanne Roseannadanna or Janis Joplin. Val came around the corner, and not expecting to see me in all of my fuzzy grandeur shrieked in surprise. She usually takes before and after pictures. Nothing prepared her for me on this day.

It was possibly the best hair washing I had ever had. She washed it twice, and despite the fact that I said she didn't need to, she dried it (an arm tiring exercise with my mop) and styled it. Val's daughter Brittany washed it a few days later, a Monday, to get me to Wednesday when the doctor would remove the stitches, and I could finally take a shower.

When he removed the bandages, Dr. P. told me to dab the stitched areas with peroxide on Q-tips but not to touch it and to avoid getting tap water in it. When he took the stitches out, he was not happy with my wound care. Even though I had diligently dabbed it with peroxide, I was apparently too soft on the forehead. Juan was with me at this appointment. Dr. P. had just removed two moles from Juan's back two days before. More on that later (maybe, if I get around to it)... Anyway, Juan laughed at me for not being clean enough.

My new instructions were to clean the forehead with peroxide, apply Bacitracin to it thrice daily, and return in two days. I was embarrassed to ask my friend for a hair washing again so I went to my daughter Julia's First Reconciliation with stinky, dirty hair pulled back in wide scarf and a sign around my neck explaining the Frankenstein look. Just kidding, there was no sign, but it would have been oh so helpful over the past few weeks.

So when I returned two days later, he told me that it looked very good and that I could shower but to continue with peroxide and ointment. And he wanted to see me in one week. I was as diligent as ever, and as the days went by fewer and fewer folks asked me if I had been in a wreck or if I had slipped in ice and cracked my head open or what the other guy looked like. In fact, I thought my forehead was looking quite well. Judge for yourself.




So I asked Dr. P. if I needed to keep up with the peroxide and Bacitracin. "No, you can discontinue that." I was waiting for him to say, "It will continue to heal on its own, and I will see you in a few weeks." But, no. He said, "Now, I want you to put tape on it. I will show you how. Up on the table." He told me to change it every three days for THREE WEEKS. Its purpose is to keep the area around it from stretching to hopefully leave me with no scar. I went to the apothecary in the hospital to find paper tape. They didn't have it in the store, but when I told them Dr. P. wanted me to wear it, and the manager went to the supply closet to fetch a roll.

One friend suggested that I could take the tape off for Christmas pictures, but I think Nah. I will look back at our photos of the Christmas of 2010 and have a good laugh.

In the meantime, I think I should rent space on it. What do you think?

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.