Scrubs

I had Mohs surgery. On my lower leg. All good. Grateful, certainly.

But the whole procedure was a blur. 

I am ushered to Exam Room 11. There could be twenty of them. Seems like a booming industry.

No sooner does the person who walks you to your room close the door than in comes the crew. They were the model of efficiency. It was impressive. It was hypnotic.

Dr. comes in first, shaking my hand, asking permission to move my purse while already moving it, examining my leg, talking to his nurse, and talking to me all in one motion.

Dr. is a very well-built man.

Very.

Well.

I mean, who has a body like that? Better question: who performs surgery, in skintight scrubs, with a body like that?

When it’s all over and they right you, you are faced once again with a sculpture that is your surgeon. It’s disorienting. He’s looking you in the eye. Oh my God, he’s gorgeous too.

With a flourish he highlights his cell on the preprinted form and says with practiced sincerity, “Please call my cell with anything.” Performance art, but who cares. He’s handing me the paper and I look at it. It has words. I look up again and he’s saying goodbye. It’s over.

As I head into the shower that night, I look down at my leg. Huh. I bet I’m not supposed to get that wet.

Yep, can’t get it wet for 48 hours. I consider how I missed such a major point in post-care instruction.

Visions of scrubs compressing.

Ripped tanned arm.

Ah.

Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.