I left the end of year school festivities early as I had an appointment with an Aesthetic & Reconstructive Plastic Surgeon. Don’t you just love that word “aesthetic”? My need was more reconstructive than aesthetic though.
A mole just below my right eye (the absent one) has shown some activity, so I arranged to have it removed. I was able to negotiate my way onto the last round of appointments prior to Christmas.
The doctor shaved the layers of skin away. It was performed with a local anaesthetic in his surgery. The worst part was the sting of the needle which was just a second or two. A very discreet arrangement of sticking plaster meant that the wound was barely noticeable when I left the surgery.
The procedure cost almost $400. They kept taking my photo and I wanted to ask if they were going to sell them online and could I then have a discount, but the sensible voice in my head said it was best not to antagonise the man with the knife.
After my initial consultation with the doctor and while they were preparing the treatment area for my procedure, I checked my phone. Mr FD, waiting downstairs in the coffee shop had left a message. He had been in the process of buying a coffee only to discover that he didn’t have his cash cards. He had given them to Son the day before to run an errand for him and had not retrieved them from Son.
Four floors up, about to go under the knife, I am not sure what he thought I was going to do – run down and pay for his coffee, perhaps?
It was such a posh surgery. Doors swished open and I felt like I was one the deck of some 23rd century space ship. Everything was white, metal, glass and of so elegant. The walls had faux pressed iron panels. It’s a long time since I experienced culture shock, but I did feel somewhat intimidated surrounded by so much false swishness. Then, I reminded myself that I was Flamingo Dancer and I could hold my own with the best. They were faux pressed iron panels after all.
I almost pulled it off too, except, when I emerged from the treatment room I thundered straight ahead instead of taking an immediate right turn out the door and so spun from closed glass door to closed glass door until I remembered that when lost it is best to retrace one’s steps and so returned to the treatment room and found my way out. There may have been some mumbling to myself as I did so.
A woman, her jaw swathed in bandages ignored my performance by being engrossed in an out of date Who magazine (What, no Vogue?). I guess she was there for the aesthetic aspect of the doctor’s skills. By the look of her I think she might need more of those skills in the near future.
Downstairs, I found Mr FD sitting in the lobby. He was so traumatised by his “Incidence in the Coffee Shop” that he babbled out the entire story to me. He had been forced to settle for a medium coffee instead of a large, for he had found small change in his wallet.
Back in the car, I asked him if he had noticed I had been under the knife. Oh yeah.
Not long after we returned home, the wound started to bleed. Blood ran down my face. I applied pressure and after about half an hour the bleeding stopped. The invisible dressing is now darkened with my precious blood.
This must have finally garnered Mr FD’s attention, blood soaked dressing and all, as this morning when he was speaking with his sister, he told her he had to “care” for me. I wonder what day that will be?
I get the test results back Wednesday.