So, yesterday afternoon – before the pints – I had a mole removed. Without getting too graphic, the mole was on my stomach. There was no good (health) reason to get rid of it but I was sick and tired of looking at it. It was no longer a mole of the adorable variety, although it had been when it came on the scene. Way back in high school.
I was totally freaked out about the whole affair, but long story short, it didn’t hurt or anything but it did require some stitches. I met Bryony and, well, you read yesterday’s post. It looked okay when I went to bed though. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Well. That thing was bleeding like crazy when I woke up this morning. Wait, something is coming back to me: Alcohol is a blood thinner. Remember, Les?! Whoops.
Fortunately, I had already made a lunch hour appointment with my regular doctor on another matter (sleep). I resolved to mention it to her if it didn’t stop bleeding on its own. Needless to say, I spent an hour on her table while she cleaned me up, inspected my stitches and tried various methods of getting this stupid thing to stop bleeding.
At one point, she (oh no) was going to do a blood test to determine why my blood wouldn’t clot. But then she surmised that I’d torn it open while I was asleep and it just kept bleeding due to the weird location of the wound (phew). It’s kind of impossible to rest your stomach; if you’re up and about it’s moving, keeping you stable. So, thank God, I was spared the humility of having to disclose those 3 pints/my stupidity to my doctor.
“This is all because I’m so vain,” I moaned.
Poke, poke, pressure. “Basically … yes.”
Hmm. Oh well. I hate that damned mole. Even if I die a slow, torturous death by mole, it will still have been worth it. Especially since Leeanne promised to keep my urn on her TV.