My Morning Mole Excavation Part 2 - Friday the 13th Update

It’s Friday the 13th (spooky, looky, whatever) and I don’t yet know the results of my Oct. 11 “shave biopsy” procedure. Dr. Yun said someone would call me if any of the twin suspect moles tested positive for melanoma. I’m hoping not to get a call at all, especially not on Friday the 13th!

Dr. Yun whizzed out of the exam room so quickly last Wednesday that I didn’t even realize she was done mole-trimming me. The entire procedure took all of five minutes or so, including two numbing needle pricks and waiting split seconds for the anesthetic to kick in.

Just before the door clicked shut, Dr. Yun poked her sophisticated yet always mirthful face back into the exam room and told me, “Oh, yeah. Good luck in New York City promoting your blog. I’m honored to be a part of it. Don’t forget to send me a link.”

I was sheet white minutes before when fast-talking Dr. Yun gave me a perky pep talk to prepare me for becoming two moles less of a woman.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Nervous?”

“That’s an understatement, doc,” I said between nail bites.

“Do you think you might faint?”

“Deep breathing. Deep three-part yogic breathing. That’s all I need and I’ll be fine.”

I commenced my anti-anxiety ujjayi (ocean) breathing (pranayama) that worked like a charm during two of my three labors. First I flooded my belly with cool air-conditioned exam room oxygen.

Next I filled my chest, all the while copiously sucking air in through my nose only, generating a loud, part-wheeze, part-snore hiss sound that probably made the doctor deem me a total nut job, if she didn’t already. Thanks for putting up with idiosyncratic me, Dr. Yun.

Whenever I’m anxious at a particularly touchy medical appointment, whether at the orthopedic surgeon for an ankle I snapped twice or for a pelvic exam at my primary care doctor (who dick-ishly advised me to “keep my legs shut” after I told him I was pregnant for a third time practically in a row), I break into new age freak show yoga breathing to bring my core back to center. I don’t care who watches. It works. I don’t pass out and that’s all that matters.

Even my kids practice yoga's Ujjayi breath when they get immunizations, except it's called hyperventilation.

(My precocious son, Aiden, 5, rates his shots on a pain scale of 1 to 10. For his kindergarten prep shots, he tearfully raged against six needle pricks one after the other, yet remained composed and rational enough to rank his "owies." It was a bittersweet scream to witness as his mama.)

Let's get back to mole hacking already. Dr. Yun pinched the perimeters of my next on the chopping block moles a few annoying times with her gloved hands and asked if it hurt.

I sarcastically barked, “No. Of course it doesn’t hurt! It KILLS, and you’re such a MEANIE to do this to me! Just plain MEAN!”

Dr. Yun cracked an uncomfortable tee-hee-hee. Perhaps she couldn’t believe I would blurt out something so inane, so immature. I hope I’m off in my assessment of her laughter; She seems so genuinely friendly and caring, with a warm, soothing bedside manner. I have to give her props for having such a bullet proof sense of humor because I talk a ton of smack when I’m nervous. Everyone knows that about me. And I’m socially nervous in a neurotic Woody Allen kind of way A LOT!

After numbing the two areas that pinked up a bit from her painful pinches, Dr. Yun's mole excavating finally got underway. The mole gouging was the easiest part. Like I said, I didn’t even know they were history (and neatly packed away for biopsy) until Dr. Yun removed herself from the exam room.

HOLE-Y COMING HOME
I was a total wussbag when I took off (ripped off - fast and furious - Is there any other way?!) my bandages last night. When I eyed the scabby craters where my raised moles once lived I was shocked at how deep the they were. I whinged on and on until my too-butch-to-complain-about-pain husband told me to “Suck it up or go whine somewhere else.”

So I sucked it up and whined ad nauseam to my wimpy self in a steamy shower. Yes! I was able to bathe for the first time in 48 greasy, grody, B.O.-riffic hours. As advised by Dr. Yun, I eagerly deteriorated into a skanky, stinkin' slob-o-mama to keep my vacuous, delicate mole holes dry.

Who am I kidding here? Sometimes I'm that filthy by choice. I mean, c'mon, how often do we moms of three rascals ages 5 and younger nab a shower anyway?!

I was too scared to wash my hair in the shower last night, fearing that the tingling peppermint lather would sting my bloody divots. Ponytails work wonders to cover up a scuzzy, unwashed 'do, ladies. That is if you can keep your kids from ripping your elastic hair band off so they can compulsively claw at your hair until they fall asleep. Um, I don't know anyone who does that to their push-over mother, um, ever.

When it came time to clean and dress my wounds, I woke up my snoring husband because I couldn't reach the mole hole on my back. So much for the arms behind-the-back gomukhasana (cow face) yoga pose I swore I'd mastered. Half-asleep and without his trusty eye glasses, he dabbed my back boo-boo formerly known as Ugly-Ass Holy Mole-y with a peroxide-Neosporin cocktail while I winced and verged on a tantrum worse than my 2-year-old could pitch.

ONE CAN ONLY TAKE LAME MOLE NARRATIVES SO FAR
Hopefully in my next post I'll whip up a topic far less narcissistic than the Swiss cheese state of my skin. How about circumcision for a more engaging subject, people? Wait, that still focuses on (fore)skin (or the lack of it). Either way, I might soon tackle the controversial "to cut or not to cut" debate.

In the meantime, are any languishing melanocytic naevi that are potentially cancerous lurking on your 14 to 18 feet of skin? Would you know how to identify a melanoma-suspect mole? Click here if you want to put an end to your dermatological suspense.

GAGGING SWAB REVEALS STREP THROAT
In unrelated medical news, our family pediatrician this morning confirmed my mama-spicion that the Maestro of Mouth has Strep Throat. His ears don't look so sweet on the inside either.

Hopefully there won't be too many take-your-antibiotics-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you-or-I'll-shove-it-down-your-throat-Aiden battles ahead this weekend.

Ps. My husband just asked my teenaged neighbor/babysitter who the homecoming queen is at her school. Our 2-year-old, Moody Cheeks McGee, chimed in and said, "Daddy, I want to be homecoming queen!" That's so Kade, our little cross-dressing, high-heel sporting quarterback boy in the making.