In seven days time it will be twelve months since I started writing this blog again after a hiatus of nine years. I started writing it again to keep a record, ostensibly for my own purposes, because I've got a terrible memory and I suspected 2020 was going to turn out to be a notable one.
In that post I wrote: "Yesterday the Prime Minister urged the British public to avoid all non-essential contact with others. While at present it feels a little over the top I'm confident that in the near future we'll see this as sage advice and suspect this is just the beginning of a long haul."
So here we are, almost a year later, and what a long haul it's been, with 140,000 people having died in the UK with Covid-19 registered as one of the causes on their death certificate. Even with the question of excess deaths that I was wondering about in my last post, it's a pretty sobering situation.
The positive news—for there is always something positive to be found—is that nearly 24 million people have had their first dose of a vaccine, another 1.8 million have had their second, and the rates of infection and deaths are dropping. Here in Greater Manchester the rate has fallen below 100 positive tests in 100,000 people for the first time in months, with only three of the ten boroughs counting more.
There are reports of folk choosing not to have the vaccine—fine I say, it's up to them—and the odd case of evangelical anti-vaxxers who rather than just saying, it's not for me, are intent on using the powers of social media to convince the rest of us that we're sleep walking into some kind of dystopian future where we'll all be killed by our own governments.
As far as I know my dad, who is just over a week short of 71 years old, has yet to be vaccinated and last time I asked he didn't seem especially concerned or in any hurry. Like I said, fine, it's up to him.
In other news, I've had a couple of moles removed, one from my left ear and one from behind my right ear, which was loads of fun. I contacted my doctor about something else entirely and during the phone consultation (because during a pandemic everything is done remotely) I happened to mention that I'd like him to look at some sun damage on my skin. He asked me to upload some images via a hyperlink then called me back to say the one on my cheek was a common or garden liver spot—I thought they were something old folk got—the one on my nose needs some attention, but wasn't anything to worry about, and the one on my ear needs an urgent consultation with a dermatologist.
Shortly after I received a text message from the health centre confirming the referral process and of course they used the word cancer which was somewhat disconcerting. I next received a letter to give me my appointment date and thirteen days after my initial call I went to get them checked out.
In the interim Chris pointed out another mole on my head, behind my right ear, which of course I had no idea about because I couldn't see it. I discussed the moles I'd mentioned to my GP with the dermatologist and also asked them to look at the newly revealed one as well. The long and short of it is that the thing on my nose was some kind of vessel damage and they zapped it there and then with liquid nitrogen to burn it off; the one on my ear they weren't hugely concerned about but because it was dark they said it was best to whip it off; and the secret, surprise mole was of some concern because it was of an irregular shape and looked suspicious.
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| The remains of the frozen nose thing. |
Two days later, in her consulting room, I chatted with the dermatologist about that favourite lockdown pastime: going for a walk, and she regaled me with a story about stumbling on a secret garden village in the heart of Burnage. We then passed the time of day discussing books: I'm reading The Little Friend by Donna Tartt and she's just finished Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton, which she recommended and I've since bought. We talked about the imminent excision, almost in an abstract way, as if she was teaching me how to do it, then I signed some documents and, lulled into a false sense of security, followed her to the next room.
The anaesthetic was pretty straightforward, though a needle going into the edge of my ear stung more than I expected, then I lay there while it did its magic. The two women assisting the consultant tried to distract me and keep me entertained. Will you be going on holiday this year? What's your job? That sort of thing. They were pleasant enough but I think they could learn a thing or two about their patter from a hairdresser. Chit chat about city breaks only goes so far when international travel is all but banned.
All numbed up, the consultant slipped around my side, weapons of choice secreted upon her person so I couldn't see what she was about to cut me with, and said, Can you feel that?
No, I replied.
And that? she asked as she jabbed me in the side of the head.
No. I could not feel anything, happy days, the anaesthetic had done its job.
I'm going to start on this side, she said, indicating the big one behind my ear. You'll just feel a bit of tugging.
To begin with I sensed the work being done and the mopping of blood, a strange sensation, accompanied by the dulcet tones of the three women trying to get me involved in a discussion about their favourite comedians, a distraction technique if ever I've heard one.
With the benefit of hindsight I'd say it was about a third of the way through the procedure when I realised the anaesthetic hadn't flooded all the way across the flesh that was being cut out.
That was sharp, I thought.
I didn't say anything obviously.
Ouch! Shit, that hurt.
Everything okay? asked one of the butchers as I unclenched my fists and wiped the sweat on my jeans.
Roseanne Barr, I replied, she's hilarious.
Roseanne! I'd forgotten about her, said the consultant, and carried on slicing me up.
Had I known the pain was going to continue for as long as it did I'd have said something but I thought, just get it over with, it won't be long, it's not that bad. So I gritted my teeth and tried to focus on something else: the drawers with paperwork in them, the pile of swabs on the counter, the crinkle of the protective paper I was lying on, the OH MY GOD SHE'S SEWING MY HEAD UP!
And she was. The offending mole had been removed, they'd talked over the works of Miranda Hart, and the wound was being sewn up. I couldn't tell whether what I was feeling was the needle going in or coming out but I knew I could feel a hot puncture in my skin followed by tugging and instructions in secret medical talk to do something to each of the stitches. One, two, three, four in turn.
All done! she eventualy said, chirpily, Just the little one on the other side to do now.
Thankfully while the bloodbath behind my right ear was occurring it had given my left ear sufficient time to numb properly and all I felt was the tugging previously promised. The consultant was done in no time. She assured me that the flesh would be lab tested for cancer and I'd receive the results in two to three weeks. She then scuttled off back to her office leaving me in the capable hands of the other two women who briefed me on stitches etiquette.
Don't get them wet for three days; book yourself in at your health centre to have them removed in two weeks; and don't lie on them when you go to sleep. Followed by a moment of realisation as she appreciated there were stitches either side of my head and that might make sleeping tricky. Maybe you could... Er... I'm not sure how you're... Well you could try...
I tried to help her out by saying, If only I had one of those hard little pillows Geishas sleep on so as not to mess their hair up. She looked at me like I was mad. I'll find a way, I assured her and left, light-headed and with a handful of leaflets.
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| Stitches behind my right ear. |
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| Stitch in my left ear. |
1 comment:
Ooh having been through this, my fingers are crossed for you that the results are of the non-worrying kind! Glad you got checked. Kate W x
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