So. The surgery.
I had skin cancer. On my eyelid. Here’s the back story: I actually went to see a dermatologist (we’ll just call him…Dr. Meanie Face) about it a few years ago, and he wasn’t concerned at all. So I thought, “OK, less chopping this way,” and went on my merry way. And then I was expecting Bitsy, and it grew, but so did everything else on my body and there was really no way I could have done anything about it anyway because let’s face it – I was too busy puking. And then, I had a very cute baby to take care of, and it kept growing, but she was really really cute and I didn’t want to have to stop nursing her even for a day. And then I had a campaign to work on, and I was having a great time meeting incredible people all over the state and I was too busy to breathe much less take time out for surgery. And then Mike won the primary and I realized that I had no excuses left.
So, off I went to dermatologist #2, who took one look at it and ran screaming out the door, but not before throwing the names of two ophthalmological plastic surgeons (did you even know there was such a thing?) at me. Wimp.
This was actually good news, because I already knew that I would need to have it removed by a plastic surgeon (I’m giving you the extremely shortened-condensed version of the story) and I did NOT want to be sitting in an office full of bodacious babes getting boob jobs. And I didn’t want Dr. BoobJob to recommend one to me, because I might just take him up on it and we do not have that kind of money, thankyouverymuch.
So I called ze good doctor’s office, set up an appointment, and headed over at the scheduled time. Now, when you think of plastic surgeons, what comes to mind? Perhaps the devilishly handsome Dr. Christian Troy, all perfectly styled and wearing Armani and arrogantly intense:
And also HOT. Did I mention hot? Because…Wow.
Anyway. This plastic surgeon was nothing like that. We’ll call him Dr. Crush.
He was all shaggy-haired and laid back and told me about his big truck and how he was going backpacking across the Yukon and also like, a totally gnarly experience he had with some elephant seals. Coolest. Doctor. Ever.
Besides, if Dr. Troy had walked into the room, I would probably have thrown up on him and then had to run out crying in total humiliation.
Along with telling me about his totally radical adventures, Dr. Crush also explained the procedure he was planning on performing, even going so far as to draw a cute little picture. It looked simple enough. At the *very end* of the conversation, he also told me about some nasty stuff he *might* have to do, but then he was like, “I’m totally prepared if I have to do all that, dude, but don’t worry, because like, I totally won’t.”
Strangely enough, I got that the feeling that through all of his Crushness, he was also very competent. It was comforting. And amusing. But mostly comforting.
Nah…Who am I kidding? The guy totally cracked me up.
Surgery day arrived. I was terrified. Not because Dr. Crush would be cutting my eye open, but because they would be putting me under to do it. For a control freak like me, this was bad news. How would I know what they were saying? Would they be making fun of me the whole time? What if I had a heart attack? What if Dr. Crush had a heart attack? What if there was giant fire in the building and they had to push me out unconscious on a stretcher and passers-by would point and mock? The questions were endless. Endless, I tell you.
I got checked in, Nurse I-Have-No-Sense-of-Personal-Space got me prepped for the procedure, Nurse Hey-I-Have-Six-Kids-Too-Let’s-Bond wheeled me into the operating room, Dr. Crush asked if I’d gone to the totally radical concert the night before, the anesthesiologist inserted the magic stuff into my IV, I thought, “Wow, that’s working fas….”
And then I woke up. I was in the recovery…cubicle? Teeny tiny sectioned-off-by-a-shower-curtain area? All around me various patients were moaning and groaning as they woke up from their respective surgeries. Holy lack of privacy, Batman!
Dr. Crush walked in. “Hey! How ya doin? You did great!” He then proceeded to tell me all about this horrible surgery he had just performed on the poor old guy in the bed next to me. Apparently he had removed about 75% of his lower eyelid, peeled the upper eyelid in half and sewn it down to his cheek, and then cut his other eyelid in half and taken a chunk of skin from it to use as a skin graft. The poor old man was going to have his eye sewn shut for the next six weeks, at least. I needed to know all of this so that I could take care of him. He made sure I understood, and then he left. I lay there thinking, “Man, it totally sucks to be him.”
Then slowly, slowly, I realized that I really needed to pee. Even though I’d only been in surgery for 30 minutes. But wait…according to the clock it had been about 3 hours. And Todd was sitting next to me, wiping blood off my cheek. And I couldn’t open my eye. I Couldn’t. Open. My. Eye. And then I realized that there was no poor old man in the bed next to mine.