OK, I admit I was cruel when I send the headline as a Tweet.
(Tweet: a message sent on Twitter.)
Here's the whole story:
About 10, maybe 15 years ago, I developed a small, fatty tumor on my chest. It was very small and looked like a mole.
But the thing kept growing. Then it got a buddy. And another one. And more moved in.
I do not like doctors. I spend enough time and money being in the clutches of the Medical-Pharmaceutical Complex that I don't go looking for trouble. Besides, I'm male, and men don't go to doctors until they're dying.
As a general rule, it's good practice to stay out of the way of people who come at you with sharp objects. That's just instinct, especially when you know you're the subject of that sharp object.
These things were ugly, though, and I decided to see if there was anything that could be done.
This morning, my doctor looked at them and said, "We can take them off."
"OK, sure," I responded. "When?"
[Try to look cool and unconcerned. Try not to look at the sharp objects. Do not be concerned when he asks the nurse for a stack of 4 x 4 pads, and says, "oh, we'll need more." Don't even allow the words "needle" or "scalpel" into your mind. Try not to remember the doctor who once set you on fire.]
In less than 10 minutes, he removed 27 of these ugly things, including one he pronounced "the size of a small child." That was the first one.
He's very skilled and it hurt very little. The trouble is that I've been on aspirin therapy for nearly 11 years (the MPC never lets go) to prevent unwanted blood clots.
And wanted ones. Man, the stuff works. I bled like a stuck pig. That stack of 4 x 4s went down pretty fast.
But the bleeding now has stopped. My chest, however, looks as if I've been on a hunting trip with Dick Cheney.