The Trouble with Stitches

Day #22

Stitches.

I’ve never had them.

Unless you count the ones in my mouth 

after they removed my wisdom teeth.

They seem like a lot of trouble.

Or maybe it’s just me that has trouble with stitches.

If you read about my “helping” Carisa in her post-op doctor appointment 

where they removed drain balls (painfully), 

you know I am not so good with recognizing 
what is a loose hair 

and what is a stitch.

Hint:  unless you know the difference, 

don’t yank it!!

I got a text from Carisa last week saying that she made an appointment to see her plastic surgeon because there was a “place” that never healed from surgery.

She said it almost felt like a stitch that didn’t dissolve.

That surgery was 2 1/2 years ago.

Now that is some heavy duty thread.
And procrastination.

I went with Carisa to her appointment.

I know, I’ll never learn.

I figured it was going to be a quick peek at the “place”,

a yes or no to it actually being a stitch 

and then a consult on how to handle it,
at a later date.

What is the worst that could happen?

In and out and then we could go to lunch.

I know, it’s like I don’t even read my own blog.

The sweet southern lady at the front desk

(from Knoxville, Tennesee. I asked.) 

gave Carisa about 57 pages of forms to fill out.

I promised not to talk or distract her.

Thank goodness, Carisa realized the BIG FAT LIE that was.

The paperwork kept asking if she had the sniffles, sneezed a lot and seemed VERY interested in her sinus condition.

I told her with the length of that one tube of her drain ball, they may very well have stripped her sinuses.

So the question seemed pertinent.

We were led back to an examining room where we waited for almost 45 minutes, with Carisa in a robe.

She chewed every bit of flavor out of her gum and my stomach growled itself silly.

The doctor came in and determined “the place” was a stitch and it needed to come out.

Right then and there.

Carisa lied to me about where “the place” was located.

It wasn’t “on the side” as she previously led me to believe,
it was RIGHT BY the word that I can’t. even. handle. 

So I had to hear the word thrown around the room 

like confetti at a party.

The doctor asked if I wanted to wait outside.

My face must’ve screamed yes.

But Carisa said to stay.

Dear word, when the numbing shots went in and Carisa hollered, 

“Ow, ow, OW!”

The room went a little dim.

Luckily, the doctor’s back was to me, blocking any sort of gore.

I busied myself with texting.

First to Monte explaining my deep hunger.

He told me that I put myself in “hangry” situations too much
and I should carry protein bars in my purse.

I imagined myself unwrapping a bar right there,

in the doctor’s office,

with Carisa getting cut open.

It made me dizzy.

And oddly more hungry.

Then I texted Sumita and Julie that I just couldn’t. even. handle. the word that rhymed with cripple.

And I didn’t even get to the part about it being 

thrown around the room like confetti at a party.

Julie kept telling me that the phone's autocorrect must be changing that word to cripple.

Sumita finally explained.

There may have been exclamation points.

The doctor kept asking Carisa if what he was doing was hurting her.

She said it wasn’t.

But it was hurting me.

He kept asking the nurse for different tools.

When he asked for one “with teeth”,

Carisa and I shared a horrified look.

I envisioned the nurse handing over something like the jaws of life.

SOURCE

But I couldn’t make myself look.

 My neck started to sweat.

The doctor seemed to be tugging on something and the nurse put on her glasses to check it out closer.

I guess a fair amount of scar tissue had formed around the tiny piece of stitch making it look like a grain of rice.

I was so curious to see it but feared passing out if I stood up to look over the doctor’s shoulder and got a peek at way more than I wanted to see.

Carisa said that they should put it in a bottle for me to take home.

If there had been a single ounce of anything in my stomach, 

I would’ve thrown up.

It was around then that the doctor noticed what he called a “distorted mole” and offered to remove it.

The whole classification of that struck me funny.

Leave it to Carisa to have a “distorted mole”.

And leave it to me to laugh at it.

Thank the good Lord they made another appointment for that because

I needed air and a sandwich in a bad way.

They talked about “packing” the hole they had just made into Carisa

and keeping gauze on it 

and I swear the room started to sway ever so slightly.

The doctor asked how Carisa was doing after the surgery (2 1/2 years later) and she voiced some concerns about some “areas”.

I swear, she was pranking me.

The doctor offered to “take care” of the “areas" when he removed the “distorted mole”.

It was so stinking hot in that room by then 

and I really wanted to take off a layer of clothing 

but feared the doctor would offer to 

"take care" of something on me!

As we walked out with the nurse, she asked if I was okay.

Clearly, I must’ve not seemed okay.

Carisa explained my wooziness and NOT LIKE of certain words.

She looked at me like I was odd.

Those words were her business.

It was ALMOST 3:00 when we walked out of that office,

Carisa numb and skipping along, 

me noodle-legged and contemplating eating my own hand.

She finished off the day by saying,

“You WILL be coming back with me for my next appointment.”

I need back-up, people.

LOTS of back-up.
And possibly a nerve pill.

And most definitely protein bars in my purse.