Mole!

So. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that one of my mole friends had changed on me.

It really wasn't surprising; this happens to me often with friends. How does that old Pioneer Girls song go? ...Some are silver and the others gold?

Anyway, the change I noticed: this mole, on the visible plane of my chest, rather small (the mole), appeared to have scabbed over or fallen off and then scabbed over. One day in the shower I noticed it wasn't there anymore. Well. It was there, it just wasn't recognizable for it's old mole-y self.

I noted it, forgot about it, and went about my business.

Then, during jury duty, bratty-but-somehow-sweet-at-the-same-time Juror No. 5 was talking to her crush, B1, also known as Juror No. 2 (sailboat man) about his skin. Admittedly, Juror No. 2 was white. Guy looked like he was pretty familiar with the ins and outs of sunscreen application. But then Juror No. 5 (who is probably in her mid 20s) revealed that she's had several instances of skin cancer, and because of this, has had multiple moles removed. Before she got a little long-winded and I tuned her out to talk to Juror No. 1 to discuss headjoints and stringed instruments (I am sort of familiar with one of these subjects), I asked her what was it about her moles that prompted her to see the doctor. She said, "They would change. And I don't mess around with moles." She didn't look at mine or anything but she said if I thought it was weird looking, I should get it looked at.

Anyway, her advice was sound. And slightly ominous. I promised her (she made me do it) that I would get my weird mole checked out, and because I don't break promises made to practical strangers, I did, today, at Kaiser.

I saw Dr. Rossi this morning. Dr. Rossi's assistant, Nurse Perez, was very sweet and took good care of me before Dr. Rossi entered the examination room. Dr. Rossi had some killer, M.C. Escher-inspired socks on. Before he came in, I was reading a 4-year old copy of Smithsonian magazine article about the painted dogs of Africa. Pretty cool, those dogs. I thought, Oh, he'll look at it, tell me it's fine, and send me on my way. Right? Wrong.

Dr. Rossi looked at it, told me it was fine, and then goes, "So. Why don't we just get rid of it?"

I said, "What?"

He said, "Sure, we'll do what's called a shave biopsy, and you'll be out of here in 10 minutes."

I said, "Will it hurt?"

He said, "We'll give you a little local anesthetic."

(I thought, "Will that hurt?")

I said, "Will it be gone forever?"

He said (probably wondering why I asked that question, but I actually like my moles. When they behave), "Yes."

I said, "Will there be a permanent scar?"

He said, "Well, no, probably not."

I said, "Okay, man, let's do it!"

(So I probably didn't call him "man." But those were some cool socks.)

Dr. Rossi had me sign a paper (and made what I think was a joke: he told me to "go ahead and ignore the sentence in there about death and dying"), left the room to catch up on another patient, and Nurse Perez came in and escorted me to the "little surgery room." Now, I'm thinking, is it little because of the smallness of the surgery, or because of the size of the room...? But I went with her anyway, clutching my death and dying paperwork and old Smithsonian magazine.

Once in there I kept my clothes on, put on a gown to protect my green cotton sweater (?), sat down, and continued reading about the wild African dogs. Nurse Perez set up a tray for the doctor, and then she left me in there for awhile until Dr. Rossi came back. He covered my sweater up even further (they were very careful of this old J. Crew sweater, which I never wear because it's a particularly bright shade of green) with a towel or something, and Nurse Perez attached some kind of very cold patch to my belly area (she told me it was the ground for the machine they used to cauterize the wound afterwards but it's all very unclear to me, because I stopped looking at anything lower than the ceiling at some point; probably the point when I saw the big ol' needle in Dr. Rossi's hand).

He shot me up full of anesthetic (well, in that one area), did his thing with the shaving of the mole, plopped it in a little jar full of some kind of liquid (I'm pretty sure it wasn't embalming fluid) and set it aside. Then after he let me bleed for awhile while Nurse Perez fumbled to turn on the cauterizing machine (I have no idea what this machine is really called and if what it does is actually cauterizing, but it sounds good, no?), he zapped me with the little pen-like thing. This part hurt the most. I felt like I had been shocked, which, when you think about it, I suppose I had. Nurse Perez made a lame joke about smelling burnt meat, but I actually didn't smell anything, maybe because the ouch of the procedure had dulled my ability to smell. Then she told me that they also use that machine after childbirth, which, woah, talk about ouch!

After Dr. Rossi left, Nurse Perez showed me my mole in the jar. He had told me that it was a small mole, about 3 mm. And it was, small. But seeing a small but significant chunk of my own personal skin floating around in a jar? Weirdness.

He was right, though, because I never felt him cutting it out. Or off.

In three or four days I will receive a letter or telephone call about the mole itself. Dr. Rossi is pretty sure it's benign, and I am too. Still. Better to know than to wonder, right?

Afterwards, I went out to my car, and found that the asshat who'd parked their giant SUV next to me (tail in, and I hate it when people park like that) had hit my car's front fender, causing my door to groan every time I opened it, I was pissed for a second. No note, no nothing. But then I remembered the Ford dealership where my insurance sent me four years ago when someone at work hit my car (someone responsible, who left a note and insurance information) and I had a good experience, so after calling Patrick, who didn't know about the biopsy or the car until that very moment, and who, frankly, was more concerned about the car (he said, when I told him it would take them three days before I'd hear anything about it, "you mean, so it can hatch?"), I went over there. I couldn't remember the name but I did remember where they're located.

I asked for an estimate, and the guy who wrote it up was super nice. The estimate was for $1100 dollars. Then he goes, you know what? Let's go look at it again. We did, he took it to the back where they did something to it in five minutes, told me there was no charge, and sent me on my way.

Pacific Ford, on Cherry, in Long Beach. Go there. They will treat you right.

Now I have a medium-sized bandage on my medium-sized chest, and I feel fine. Weird-ish, but really, that's pretty normal, if you think about it.