Last week I made it through something I’ve been dreading for over a year…

I had surgery.

Ok, I had a mole removed, but you would have thought by my fear and anxiety that I was having a triple bypass where I had a 50/50 chance of living.

Last year I went to a new dermatologist to have a mole on my shoulder looked at. I remembered it being smaller when I was in high school. He agreed that I was right to come in and suggested that I have it removed. He even offered to do it on that first visit. Not being prepared for such an idea, I declined. He told me to make an appointment. That was a year ago last summer.

My friend Amanda heard that I had been putting this off for over a year and insisted that I go take care of it. She even called me twice to make sure I made the appointment. (She knows me too well).

The day finally arrived. My precious shoulder mole was to go the way of a laboratory. On the morning of the procedure I considered cancelling the appointment 3 times before forcing myself into the car and over to the doctor’s office. On the way, I bought myself a “Kit Kat” for being so brave and I had to remind myself to breathe the whole 14 floor elevator ride up to my dermatologist’s office.

I entered the waiting room where 3 older gentlemen sat chatting, all with big white bandages on various parts of their bodies. One on top of his balding head, the other on his ear, and the third on his forearm. The sight of these men’s bandages did not help to quell my anxiety, but I managed to check in, sit in a comfy chair and start reading Time Magazine.

A few minutes later they called my name.

I followed the nurse to the exam room. I sat waiting and staring out at the view of Santa Monica, trying to ignore my reason for being there, when finally Dr. Massey entered.

I showed him my mole again and he said, “Yes, I still think you should have it removed, just to be safe. I’ll be right back.”

The dreaded words, “I’ll be right back.” The phrase never to be used if you think you’re in a horror movie, which at that point, I thought I was.

You see, unfortunately, when I was little, I saw a horror movie of the week on tv about anesthesia going horribly wrong. From that day on I have had an irrational fear of anything involving anesthesia. When I was younger I used to throw the most brilliant fear tantrums when I had to go to the dentist to have a cavity filled because I thought the anesthesia shot in my mouth might kill me. (Luckily I have been blessed with very few cavities). And, get this, I threw these fear tantrums until I was 17 years old. Talk about a ninny.

The nurse entered to set up the “surgical” instruments. I sat watching her, my body getting very hot and my stomach tying itself in knots. My throat welled up with tears and I was half crying and half laughing at how ridiculous I was being. The nurse was oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Just then my doctor returned and told me to lie back on the table. As I did so my body started to sweat and I turned my head away from my shoulder so I couldn’t see anything that was happening. He told me I would feel a small prick and then a stinging sensation from the anesthesia. I swallowed hard. My doctor, bless him, tried to distract me from what was happening on my left shoulder with a conversation about the theatre (in his soothing British accent), but nausea started to overwhelm me and I couldn’t engage in coversation. I simply got increasingly sweaty and nauseous. When it was all over, I sat up and looked at my shoulder. All I could see was a small, round bandaid.

My threshold for actual pain is quite high, but obviously my tolerance for imagined pain is very low. I have a very vivid imagination.

On Monday I have to return to get my stitches removed. I can only imagine how my body will react to that idea…

Can’t I just keep them??