Bedside Mannerisms and Bad Patients.

Be nice to your doctor, his Exacto knife is saving you.

Because I’m obsessed with writing, yesterday while laying on a hospital bed in the middle of a horror movie scene, I desperately tried to keep track of all the writable moments in my head.

I knew I’d have to put this story together after the science project was complete.

I’m now at home after the ordeal, looking like a real life Frankenstein. I have a bunch of 2-inch stitch lines railroading my face, I’m swollen, and the freezing has worn off.

To put it simply, I hurt like hell.

The only thing missing are a couple of bolts in my neck to complete the look, and this could actually be me. These are the actual size of my stitch lines and how my face looks:

I knew going in that the MOH’s skin cancer procedure is very common and there’s really no way to screw it up, so that offered me a little comfort. After postponing this surgery not once, but twice out of fear, I put on my big girl panties and went to the hospital.

The minute I changed into my surgical gown and laid on that bed, I was unprepared for the panic that would set in. I told the nurse immediately that I was freaking out and she said she could tell.

Luckily for me and all medical staff, intense fear translates into humor, not anger or bad behavior.

She offered me a dose of Ativan to calm my nerves, advising that it works like a charm, so I took it. After 15 minutes I asked her when I’m supposed to stop caring and she asked, “You still care?”

Yes I still cared! So she dropped another Ativan under my tongue and we waited some more.

Another 15 minutes passed and she asked how I felt. I told her I was now freaking out on the down low. The anxiety was still there but I could no longer do anything about it.

I asked, “Can’t you just euthanize me please?”

She laughed and started strapping towels around my neck with stainless steel clips. Apparently I get even funnier on Ativan.

When I looked at the medical cart where the tools were laid out it felt like I was inside a horror movie. I advised the nurse that I watch Criminal Minds…I know how this all works. Once they lay the gauze over your eyes it’s game over for the girl on the hospital bed.

After I was fully prepped, in walks “the intern,” who was fine as hell. A gorgeous looking young guy about to join in on the fun of cutting my face off piece by piece.

Strike him off the list of potential men to hit on in the future.

The intern was wearing what appeared to be hazmat glasses. He was there to inject the anesthetic and assured me that he wore them just in case anything spurted.

“First of all, exactly what might spurt? Second of all, where were my spurting glasses?”

Yes, I legit asked him those two questions. He also laughed at me. Then he told me he could Botox my forehead lines while he was in there with the needle anyway.

Now it was my turn to laugh. This guy was good. I asked him if he learned that kind of humor in medical school and he replied, that yes, his entire first year was studying beside humor.

Everyone laughed while I laid there about to be slowly and methodically dismembered. With the gauze over my eyes I’d never know which one of them was guilty. I would never know which one administered the final lethal injection.

In walked the surgeon, Dr Kurwa. He’s a lovely Indian man with a smooth British accent. The type of accent that can calm anyone down. In his soothing voice he advised me that they’ll be making the first round of cuts now. Then I could nap while they analyze my cancer-ridden skin and decide if they need to cut some more out.

While I couldn’t feel the cutting, I knew it was happening. And since this was all taking place on my face I could hear it. Nobody wants to hear that. Also, nobody wants to smell their own flesh burning when they cauterize your skin to stop the bleeding.

Somehow we started talking about my travel writing. I must have offered up that information in a blacked out state of terror. When I mentioned Jamaica the intern started talking about how he loves jerk chicken — but only authentic jerk chicken — the kind that ignites your mouth on fire.

“Oh, you mean kind of how you’re igniting my face on fire?”

They all died laughing, then the intern asked if I went to the same first year of humor school he’d attended.

It didn’t take long for my first round to be finished. I could now go to sleep for a couple hours and they’d be back later.

During a MOH’s procedure everyone involved hopes they get all the cancer during the first round of cuts, because it’ll prevent you from having to go through a second round.

Of course, I had to go through the second round. This was my horror movie and no one gets out alive.

Round two of cutting takes place and we finally make it to the stitches so I can get the hell out of there and run for the hills.

Let me just tell you about getting stitches in your face for a minute.

Sure, freezing prevents you from feeling pain but nothing…absolutely nothing can prepare you for hearing the sound of your skin being sewn. Nothing can prepare you for the feeling of them stretching your forehead skin, which shouldn’t even stretch because there’s barely any skin there.

This was some Silence of the Lambs type shit going on.

I kept telling the doctor how disgusting this is. Not for a minute did I think that I’m telling him what he does is disgusting. I didn’t even consider that I might be insulting a man who is currently ridding my body of cancer.

But like a boss, he calmly continued talking to me in his soothing British accent, reassuring me that everything was coming together nicely. He asked many questions about my writing, shared stories about books he’s read, and did everything a wonderful doctor should do to maintain a sense of calm.

I adored him for it.

Once the procedure was complete, he handed me a mirror. I won’t lie…I was mortified. I have a two-inch vertical train track up the center of my forehead, a two-inch horizontal train track running from the side of my eye all the way to my hairline.

My face is swollen beyond recognition, now all gauzed and taped up. I would cry if I could find my eyes under the swelling. I’d laugh if it didn’t require my face to move. I look like a monster, plain and simple.

When I looked in the mirror I asked the doctor, “Is this the new me? Because I can’t be friends with her.”

He smiled kindly and gently, assuring me the swelling will all go down and I will return to normal over time. And then he said, “Hey….it’s better than cancer right?”

And he is right. That one statement put it all into perspective. All my joking and humor aside, if not for his disgusting job of cutting people’s faces up we would all be worse off.

Once all was said and done I mindfully made a point of telling Dr Kurwa that I truly appreciated his bedside manner. I also found the intern as I staggered my way out and paid him the same compliment because I sincerely meant it and I wanted them to know.

Both of those men did their best to turn an otherwise ugly situation into something manageable for me.

The medical profession is one of the toughest and dirtiest jobs out there but without them, where would we all be?