Today was my appointment with the dermatologist; on the way there, Betty spun her tires trying to get traction from a slippery stop on a wet road, and I wore my scarf over my head on the way into the office.
Dr. Grin -- no kidding -- was nice, and brisk without being brusque. She excised the mole for biopsy.
"You understand about the scarring?" she asked. "You're comfortable with this, you want to do it today?"
"Yes," I said. (Faking conviction.)
She left to send in the tech.
"I had my wisdom teeth out," I said to Jennifer, the tech who set out the Novocaine needle and showed me the slicer the doctor would use.
"Oh, then you won't have any problem, here," Jennifer said, but when she looked at me, she said, "I'll give you a smaller needle."
I felt the needle but not the blade. I babbled about my jobs and having my wisdom teeth out.
(The truth is that with my teeth went my blind trust in doctors, dentists, well-wishers; spend too long with pliers in your mouth and you start to get leery of these things. And it's the same, anyway -- they're taking a part of you you'll never have again, sockets and scars where parts used to be.)
"Put Vaseline on it every day for, I would say, about two weeks," said Dr. Grin. "You don't want scabbing."
"Will it, when the Novocaine wears off --" I faltered.
"Hurt? Not really. It'll feel like a big scrape," she said.
"I can handle that."
I put on my scarf and left, wound through the parking lot to Betty and got in, pushed play on El-P's bracing, addictive "I'll Sleep When You're Dead" and pulled out.
Seven to ten days for biopsy results, and I'm shaking now -- some would say "like a leaf."
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