Lump

Recently I had a lump surgically removed from my lower back.  As lumps go I could have had worse.  About the size of a small fist, it was in a discreet spot, only visible when I was at the pool or mowing the lawn with my shirt off on a hot day (hot being defined as 55 degrees and up).  I didn't get the vibe that it was a bad lump with ill intent.  It was simply a collection of fatty tissue that decided to take up residence in one concentrated area of my body and while away the days.

Despite the lack of perceived lump-initiated malice, after 10 years of living with the thing I'd had enough.  Fairly often I would inadvertently whack the lump when getting into my car, putting on my backpack that I use extensively when I travel for work, or any number of other routine activities.  Plus, I didn't enjoy feeling like I had a mutant growth coming out of my back.  My career as an international male back model has really slowed in the past decade.

I visited a general surgeon, hoping it was such a minor thing that he could scoop it out of me with a melon baller right in his office and be done with it.  But no, it was too big for that, and I learned they can reach deeper inside you than is apparent, like an iceberg.  The doc made vague proclamations about needing "support staff" and "modern operating room equipment" and other accoutrements that smacked of lawyer-driven precaution and safety.  So I entered the world of hospital administrative processing and outpatient surgery checklists.

Leading up to the procedure I had numerous phone calls with nurses asking preparatory and often duplicative questions, the cumulative duration of which lasted far longer than the procedure itself.  No, I don't have an allergy to latex.  No, I don't have a problem with anesthesia.*  No, I don't have a living will.  I was asked at least 4 times if I had a living will.  This isn't heart surgery!  Have some confidence in yourselves, people!  After the fourth of fifth time I was starting to have doubts myself.  Should I have a living will?  Only old people have living wills, right?  Holy crap am I THAT old?  I already have a "regular" will to decide who gets my 8 yr old car and my collection of Guitar Hero Xbox games.  If I wake up a vegetable?  Just put the hospital room TV on ESPN and see what happens.

*My college roommate had a problem with anesthesia, once turning into a multi-day narcoleptic after dental surgery.  He also was known for having epic hangovers.  I'm no doctor but I see a connection here.

On the day of the procedure I had my wife drive me to the medical center, as required by the doctor, even though I was convinced of my invincibility,* at least in my ability to drive myself home afterward.  I then began the procession of waiting rooms and familiar questions (No living will!) before finally getting to the pre-op bed.  Not wanting to take a vacation day for something I was still convinced should be done in 10 minutes in a doctor's office, I had my laptop with me and was working online with an IV and other tubes plugged in to me.  All of the world's knowledge can be delivered wirelessly to my computer but I still need clear plastic landlines to receive fluids and pharmaceuticals.

*Typical guy

After playing several games of Ruzzle with my waiting wife, after responding to numerous work emails and documents, and after reconfirming with each medical professional who entered the room that I was, indeed, the David Carl that was born on 7/8/69, thereby distinguishing myself from any other David Carls getting surgery that day in the same facility in Shakopee, MN, they finally wheeled me into the operating room.  Was I feeling the anesthetic yet?  No, not yet, triggering a latent memory in the back of my mind of an un-read article from a recent Atlantic Monthly about people waking up in the middle of surgery.  They put a mask on me and flipped me over onto my stomach on the operating table.  OK, now I'm feeling the anesthetic. And blah blah blah...out.

Thirty-five minutes later I'm awake and being wheeled back to the pre-op room, feeling no different and wondering if they really took the thing out.*  I popped open my laptop to resume working and wait for the doc to say I'm free to rejoin normal society.  Eventually he drops in and says there were no problems, they'll biopsy the mass in a few days (this isn't a Lifetime movie of the week:  it was negative), and that I shouldn't do anything in the next few days that will stretch my stitches.  So no cardio tennis tomorrow?  No.

*I really hoped they'd tell me the lump weighed 5 pounds, thereby giving a serious boost to my personal tonnage reduction efforts currently underway.  But the biopsy report described it in grams so bleech.

I'm now living the carefree life of a lump-free human being.  I swing my backpack onto my back with abandon and look forward to spring break on the beach when people will look at me and think, "Hey, he's not a deformed freak.  He's pretty old, though.  I bet he has a living will."