molegate

Arrive at NHS hospital in Fulham at 10am.

The day has arrived to de-molify. I haven't slept all night, rather spent eight hours on my back sweating profusely, and imagining scalpels and injections and the pain. Would there be pain? Of course there'd be pain. The doctor wielding the scalpel would be cutting a chunk out of my flesh for crying out loud.

Fuck.

The terrification continued and by the time I reached Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, I was a jibbering wreck. I'd made sure I had dressed up for the occasion.

Why?
1) In a neurotic's world, you imagine that this may be the last thing you wear alive;
2) If I didn't die of de-molification, I could at least look at my beautiful Ted Baker skirt in an effort to cheer up

Got to the reception area, and the lady points at a chair next to a big sign that says, "Operating Theatre."

Suddenly an image of my dead dog popped into my brain. And a scalpel. And blood. And a mole.

I started crying, weeping. "Buh..I am...So...scared!"

A weak smile.

They told me to lie down on the operating table. Now I was shaking and sniffling and tears were rolling. Basically, looking like a right tool.

They informed me I could hold crush the nurses hand while she knifed away. And that the injection would be the worst part; the rest I'd feel a 'pushing and pulling.'

I felt like a scrapbook. You know, craft. She was crafting a slice out of my left shoulder where the offending mole lay.

Lay on the table whimpering as she injected me with numbifier.

Then she started cutting. I felt nothing. They both started chatting about the Royal Wedding. As she sliced.

"So excited for this wedding! Why people get so pissed off about it, well I dunno."

Peas: Hmmph. My friend had a baby here last week.

Surgeon: Oh really? That's lovely.

Peas: She must be the bravest woman on the planet. I am dying over a mole. She had a whole exit strategy planned for her baby.

Surgeon: Ah yes, but at least she knew the end result would be happiness.

Peas: Erm...why is my end result not happy again?

Surgeon: Because we need to send the mole for a biopsy, love.

Peas: I thought getting this removed was a precautionary thing. As in, I was told it probably wasn't cancerous.

Surgeon: Yes but it still might be.

Peas: WHA?

Surgeon: Don't worry, it just means more skin will be removed if it is.

Peas: Dude. You're already cutting an inch outta me.

Surgeon: Yes darling, don't worry. It'll be all healed in 9 months.

Peas: NINE MONTHS. I have to be a bridesmaid in...oh 10 months. Nevermind.

Surgeon: Oh that's lovely.

Peas: Yes I am trying on dresses today.

Surgeon: With this? It's quite large you know.

Peas: Gak, seriously, please some good news.

Surgeon: Do you have someone to change the dressings on this for the next 2 months?

Peas:...Yes?

Surgeon: There's the good news then!

I got up, saw the bloodied swabs, started wobbling, thanked them profusely and heeled it the fuck out of there.

Moleless.

But before that, I stupidly asked if I could see it.

You know, the mole, not the gaping wound that now had 4 stitches.

It was in a petri dish, a huge chuck of skin with a mole inside it.

There's an image I'll never forget.