I was about to post this in GQ, since it doesn’t necessarily ask for a diagnosis, but I decided to put it here instead to give myself a little more latitude in that regard.
One point five weeks ago, I had two moles removed by a plastic surgeon. I’m fair skinned and have a decent collection of moles, the ones I had removed weren’t any more or less “suspicious” than others, I just had them removed for mostly cosmetic reasons. One was on my cheek and tended to make shaving difficult, the other was on my arm and tended to get snagged on things.
I guess for customary reasons, the doctor had them sent to the hospital’s lab for testing after they were removed. A week later, when he was removing the stitches, he said that the lab on the arm-mole came back negative, but the mole from my face had something so they sent it to the lab at University of Michigan for more conclusive tests, and they’d call me when those results came in.
Alright, I thought, if it does turn out to be something, the fact that it and the immediately surrounding skin have already been removed should mean no big deal.
Then today a nurse from his office called me and said something to the tune of, “Your lab results came back today, we need to make an appointment for you to see the doctor.”
I’m no George Costanza, but could that phraseology not be designed to inspire the most possible dread?
If the results were fine, they’d just tell me on the phone. Since they didn’t, they must want me to be there in person, sitting down, when they tell me I have 4 weeks before my entire face melts off Raiders of the Lost Ark style.
Or perhaps they just want to get another office visit billed to my insurance.
The guy’s just a plastic surgeon, he spends most of his days sucking fat out of people or tucking their tummies. If the news were completely dreadful, it seems like he’d refer me to an oncologist or something. My best guess is that the labs returned some kind of weirdness, but since we cut it out you’re fine now, maybe we’ll run a test or two, have a lollipop.
Though I pride myself in level-headedness, ever since I hung up the phone I’ve been feeling spiky tendrils growing from my face, twisting around my body like some kind of alien taproot. Since my appointment is in a week, which, for those unfamiliar with measurements of time, is nine hundred thousand days, I imagine these feelings are only going to get worse.
So, since this is in IMHO now, lets take a poll: Am I going to die or what?