Just Like Dooce! Only in the not so fun 'Ed Revisited' Way

Some of you may recall my ramblings a few weeks ago about a suspicious mole. I had it removed last week. A simple little ten minute procedure where I was in awe of the sickening yet fascinating ways in which my skin could be numbed, burned, cut, and pulled all in such a short span of time. Fun, yet sick, in a fun yet sick kind of way. So surprisingly quick that I took advantage of the sitter and shopped a bit and then headed home.

Ha! Fools who joyously shop and use up free baby sitter time unwisely pay in the end. Or at least that is what my addled, tired, and ever circling brain spent much of the night thinking about. That and having my chest cracked open. Basically my doctor called yesterday. A kind little man who is prone to humming as he heats up lasers and threads needles. Not in a comforting way either. The mole is not good.

"So just when you come in like you would have to have your stitches removed next week, we'll just remove more skin that was near the mole and under it. The lab wants more samples. The outer areas of the mole are suspect."

Suspect of what? Grand larceny? Did they shoplift a pack of gum from the local Safeway? He didn't say. He didn't use the c-word either. Nor were the terms squamous, Basel, or melanoma thrown around. Though who wants to throw those words around carelessly anyway? Just more cutting, more stitches. More tests. Excellent. That's making my Jamaica trip sound a whole lot less enticing and more like me spending the week in a large hooded caftan with my face wrapped in cotton as I sip frosty drinks through a straw. Going to a cold clime is sounding more enticing.

Anger, sadness and fear have all plagued me since that phone call. I baked a batch of brownies. I ate a lot of the batter and then drank a beer. I pretty much kicked the 'Nine' challenge to the curb for the day. I went online and looked up some of the terms he used which did no good at all after seeing the wounds. Now my vanity is also angry, sad, and fearful. My left breast will be perfectly marred instead of perfect. I was proud of those puppies. I even liked that stupid, evil mole. It was then that I revisited Dooce. I found her writings and trials dealing with Ed, her sick little bastard of a mole, and found some comfort, except when I looked at the photos of Ed's demise. Damn! This is going to suck.