The Stitches Come Out Thursday

An evocative pronouncement.  The mind reels from the myriad ominous scenarios that could generate such a statement, “How did you come to need sutures”?

“Are you okay?”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Is your career as a swimwear model in jeopardy?”

All will be answered in time.  As you read this the event is complete and all anxiety may be laid aside.  The fact that this blog has been published should be proof that your humble correspondent survived the surgical ordeal.  But this missive was penned yesterday and uncertainty lingered in the air.  Anxiety ran so thick one could slice it with a feather.

It all started with my annual physical performed by Dr. Melinda (we’re using first names here to protect the author from possible litigation), my GP.  Now some of you men may be silently wondering, “A woman doctor?”  I assure you I have no qualms about being ministered to by a physician of the fair sex.  No, no, it’s not that I am a progressive thinker that has evolved to a state where the vestiges of gender identity hold no importance in assessment of a person’s professional qualifications.  Quite the opposite.  In fact, my choice of personal physician was very much based on her physical attributes; most notably her slender, feminine fingers.  You men over forty out there know of which I speak.  If you don’t, you are not seeing your doctor often enough.  But I digress.

In the normal course of my examination I called Dr. Melinda’s attention to a mole on my left lower leg, just above the ankle, of which I was suspicious.  In this case, the object of my concerned had darkened in color over the past several months until it could be considered black.  She agreed that it should be removed and biopsied for caution’s sake.  I love novocaine, as it has several times in my life allowed me to affect a posture of heroic stoicism.

About two weeks later, I received the expected phone message from Dr. Melinda’s nurse advising me of the biopsy results.  To my surprise, rather than an all clear, I was informed that the results of the biopsy had been forwarded to a dermatologist, Dr. Agata (yes, still first names and for clarification, also a woman) for further assessment and treatment.  I contacted Dr. Agata’s office to schedule an appointment.

On the appointed day and time I met with Dr. Agata for a consultation.  The doctor could be best described as a German beer hall waitress in physical manifestation, but not the St. Pauli’s girl you’re thinking about.  No, I am referencing the traditional rotund frau with weight lifter arms that can grapple a half-dozen beer steins in each hand.  Not to leave any doubt, a woman whose boobs could suffocate a man under the appropriate circumstances.

“Ach! Mr. Holbrook, let me zee your file.  Ahuh.  Ahuh.  It zeems zhat der results of your biopsy show zhat your mole vaz not cancerous but did indicate zee presence of abnor-r-r-rmal zells.  I vant to per-r-r-r-form a punch biopsy to ensure vee have gotten all zee suspicious tissue.”

This seemed reasonable to me so I agreed, “Let’s!”

“Ahuh.  Ya, zhat is vhat vee vill do.  But I do not have time to perfor-r-r-r-m zee excision today.  Please r-r-r-emove your zhirt and trousers zo I may check your-r-r-r zkin for additional suspicious moles.” She examined my skin making the occasional humph sound.  When finished she continued the dialogue, “Ya, very nice.  Goot!”

“Well, I work out a little.’

“Was? Huh?  Oh, I zee, zhat was a joke.  Very humour-r-r-ous.  Vell, never mind.  I don’t like zhis shpot on your arm, here.  I want to do a punch biopsy on zhis as well.  Okay, goot zhen.  Put your-r-r-r clothes on und make an appointment mit zee r-r-r-receptionist for zee excisions.  Gutten tag!”

And so, I made the appointment for a week later.  The excisions were performed without complication and a few stitches applied at each wound.  An appointment was scheduled for their removal two weeks later and I waited for the biopsy results.  After about one week I received another message from the nurse.  The biopsy of the mole on my arm showed that the punch excision had not removed enough tissue to leave a margin of healthy skin.  The doctor would have to excise a larger area, this time with a scalpel.  The appropriate scheduling was completed and I awaited the day.

At the appointed day and time, I reported to Dr. Agata’s office for the procedure.  On this visit she was a bit more jovial.  Her manner was lighter, less serious than our previous meeting.  Perhaps she was excited by the prospect of wielding a scalpel.

“Ya, ya… Mr. Holbrook.  Zehr goot to zee you again.”  She reviewed my chart.  “Ya.  Vee are going to r-r-r-remove zum additional tissue from your arm.  Okay, Goot!  First, the nurse vill remove zee stitches from zee punch excisions und zhen vee vill pr-r-r-roceed, ya?”

This time they made me lie on a surgical table and wouldn’t let me watch the procedure.  There was copious use of novocaine.  While I can’t really say it was painful, there was a lot of tugging and sawing and muttering in what I will guess was German.  Maybe I have tough skin.  The procedure took about fifteen minutes and resulted in quite a pile of bloodied pads.  There are a number of self-dissolving stitches subcutaneous and six binding the surface wound.  It’s going to leave a bitchin scar.  “Well, doctor, is it okay to go to the gym with these stitches in place?”

“Huh? Vas?’ she looked at me quizzically for a blink or two, “Oh, I zee.  Another joke.  Ach! Mr. Holbrook, you leave me in stitches.  No… ha, ha, I leave you in stitches.  Oh, zhat is funny.  Ha! Ha!  Ya, stitches!  No, zhere will be no weight lifting while the stitches are in place.  I don’t vant you popping zhem out.

A week after the excision, I received a call that the biopsy indicated the doctor had successfully remove all of the abnormal cells and had achieved an acceptable margin of healthy tissue at the edge of the wound.  To be proactive, Dr. Agata will perform body examination every six months. I’m working on my shtick now to be sure I’m ready for the next battle for comedy supremacy.

Thinking back on those beer hall hands, I’m glad she’s my dermatologist and not my GP.  The stitches come out Thursday.