Surgery took about an hour; two hours total from drop off to pick up.
Dr. Mark Burnett was good humored and pleasant first thing in the morning. I also found out as the procedure progressed that he’s a Royal, class of ‘99, which I promised not to hold against him as a Don, class of ‘91. It was comforting to know a fellow local was in charge.
The procedure started with a familiar knock pattern on the door: shave-and-a-haircut
“Two bits..!” I sung out.
“Two bits—what’s that?” Dr. Burnett asked.
“That’s how much a shave and a haircut cost…two turns of centuries ago (I wasn’t confident on my dates); about fifty cents (actually 2 bits is a quarter; 8 bits to a dollar).”
“Really? Is that where that comes from? I’m going to lie you back.” Hum of the surgical chair repositioning.
“I mean, I don’t know where it comes from, but that’s the common call-and-response.”
The crazy bright surgical lamp turned the insides of my eyelids crimson and he said, “I never knew that. You may feel some pinching.”
After that, there was numbness, there was wetness, and there was the burning rust smell of cauterizing.
“I’ll be back,” said the doctor.
The surgery tech, Victor, gently put on a temporary bandage, sat me upright in the chair, and then I did what no other skin cancer surgery patient ever does, lookup the origins of late Victorian jingles on Wikipedia.
While the slides were being prepared and reviewed in the lab, I texted my surgeon friend, Eric, ““Mmmmm. Nothing like the smell of cauterizing in the morning.”
It’s kind of great to have friends that go back 30 years with you. Surgeon friends who can handle a joke like that before breakfast.
“Smells of…victory!” he wrote back.
Victory indeed.
I’m so glad I don’t live in 1899. I’m glad I can have a clever, inquisitive doctor remove a basal cell carcinoma, repair the wound site, and quip on his way out, “don’t get anymore of those, ok?”
The female technician in charge of assisting with closing and bandaging me up has a young son with the same unusual name (Ford, as in, Ford Prefect) as Eric, my orthopedic surgeon friend.
In fact, her dad is a practice partner with my surgeon friend.
Because it’s a small world, and in every way that makes it great, Santa Barbara is a small town too.
Now I’m going to lie around and do nothing for a week, keeping my blood pressure down, icing a bit, and easing the fluid drainage away from my eye with gentle pressure.
I have a comfort dog and a caring husband to look after me, so I’m sure I’ll be just fine.
What do you think?