…Like I Need A Hole In My Head

I’m lying on the operating table, procedure finished.  Had a cyst removed from the side of my face.  The doctor had said it was about a centimeter in size.  He and the nurse slowly lift me to a sitting position. 

I look around.  There’s a tray filled with white and bright red gauze.  I’m wired for marketing, and my first thought is, “Man, if I was this guy’s marketing consultant, I’d suggest he have the bloody gauze disposed of before the patient gets up and looks around.  Lends itself to a neater, cleaner patient experience.” 

I’m wounded.  It was a good cut, but a wound nonetheless.  It took something from me.  My spirit is up, but my body is slow. 

The nurse or doctor—I can’t tell who’s doing what—is putting a bandage over the stitches.  It was a rather quick outpatient procedure, right there in the doctor’s office.  I could feel some tugging, but the local anesthetic shielded me from pain.  We were able to carry on a conversation the entire time.  I told the doctor about my son in his second year of medical school in Israel, who is pretty excited about finally getting to work on cadavers. 

“Oh, yes.  That’s exciting,” said the doctor. 

We talked a little more about the medical school experience…why Israel…and how it’s such a shame that generation after generation are fighting the same battle over there. 

And now I’m sitting up, thinking about the blood I’ve lost…over on that tray covered with white and red gauze. 

“So, do I need to change this bandage every day?” I ask. 

“No,” says the doctor, “you can keep it on all week, until you come in to see us again.” 

“And it can get wet in the shower?” 

“Yep.” 

“Kind of like medical duck tape?” 

He chuckles.  “I never heard that one before.” 

“Anything else I need to know, like after the anesthetic wears off?” 

“It shouldn’t hurt much.” 

Key word being “much.” 

“But you’ll probably have a black eye in the morning.” 

A black eye?!  I need that like I need a hole in my head.  Oh…I’ve already got one of those.  Let’s see…how many “hole in the head” jokes can I come up with? 

I’m tired, but I drive home.  I call the hubby. 

“How’d it go?” 

“OK, but I’m not up to cooking dinner.” 

“I’ll cook.” 

I get home, and the house is filled with the pungent aroma of dinner.  Before we partake, my daughter greets me, and notices the bandage. 

“Did you have brain surgery?” 

“Yeah, they took out part of my brain.  Actually, I had a cyst removed.” 

“Is it malignant?” 

Not too much drama, eh?  I need this like I need a… 

“The doctor said it was probably just from a blocked pore.  But they have to test it anyway.  I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

“Oh.” 

We begin dinner. 

“Did you use jalapeños?” I ask my husband. 

“Yeah.  I got two from the garden.” 

“Did you remove the seeds?” 

“No.”  

Not to brag, but my garden-fresh jalapeños are hell in your mouth…in a good way…if you like jalapeños, that is.  But with the seeds, they’re too hot for human consumption, even for my fiery palate. 

I’ve already eaten several bites…the ensuing “Montezuma’s Revenge” is inevitable. 

I need that like I need a…you guessed it.  Already got me one of those. 

I wake up the next morning with a dull headache.  I look in the mirror.  No black eye. 

Thank you, Lord. 

The medical duck tape is holding.  The headache worsens, and I’ve got an appointment with a client. 

I need this headache like I need a…fill in the blank.  Yep, already got me one of those. 

So here I am, walking around with a hole in my head.  A one-centimeter hole.  I can’t see it, because the doctor neatly stitched it up and covered it with that fancy tape.  But I know it’s there…or isn’t there. 

Is a hole something that’s there…or isn’t there?  

I hope the tape is as good as they say it is.  I can see myself walking around with a dirty white tape flapping, revealing glimpses of stitches…bloody ones at that. 

I need that like I need a…!

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4 Responses to “…Like I Need A Hole In My Head”

  1. Don Jones Says:

    That was a good story. I hope it has a happy ending. Don

  2. June Haywood Says:

    Keep writing. You are great. I love reading your posts. You keep me smiling.

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