I entered the waiting room for what seemed like the hundredth time. Today, there was one other person waiting. I checked in and sat down. Lucky magazine was to my left, so I read it to get my mind off what was to come, even though lucky was the opposite of what I felt. A couple entered the waiting room. No one offered any hint of a smile. The room, although brightly colored, was as gloomy as a rainy winter evening. The man that had gotten there before me was called back. We all gave him a sympathetic nod as he passed through the door of misery.
Hours passed (or five minutes). The tension was growing with each second. The door opened. My name was called. I slowly put my magazine down, accepted the sympathy nod from the couple that had entered after I had, and walked through the door. The world seemed to be passing by in slow motion as I walked down the hallway to a place I had become all too familiar with over the years. I had previously vowed never to return, but here I was.
Nurse was nice, but I knew better than to trust her gentle smile and small talk. She shoved a metal thermometer down my ear. I heard a beep, and she smiled at me and said, "Good." Then, she suffocated my arm with the blood pressure pump thing. The room started moving around, but I choked back the tears and avoided passing out. I knew I had to be brave, especially since my mother wasn't there to protect me. Nurse took a sharpie and drew on my thumb and foot, which tickled so much. I almost kicked her, but I thought I might get in trouble. Even if it was involuntary. She left the room, only to return a few short moments later with a very nice camera. She took pictures of her sharpie drawings on my body. Then my face. I didn't know whether to smile or not. I was not happy, but I decided to smile anyways. I probably looked like an evil genius plotting something devious. Oh well. She left again.
Less than two moments later, Nurse re-entered and asked me if it would be ok, instead of freezing my warts off with liquid nitrogen, if they could numb the areas and "scrape" the warts away. She assured me that it wasn't as bad as it sounded. I was hesitant, but finally complied. She covered my stomach with this sheet - it was a mixture of cotton and plastic, so blood wouldn't get on my clothes. As if I wasn't nervous enough already. The stuffiness of the sheet made me start sweating.
Doctor entered the room holding a needle and a bottle of anesthesia. A single tear rolled down my cheek. The first thing he asked me when he came into the room: "Where's your mom?"
....
In his defense, my mom is usually with me when I have these kinds appointments because I'm a huge baby and I don't want to be by myself. She was out of town picking up my sister, so obviously she could not come with me.
I was still creeped out.
Doctor was so mean. Whenever I asked questions, he replied with, "Nurse, tell Katie to stop talking to me. Nurse, Katie is talking to me. Nurse, Katie is bothering me." He was being an obnoxious 4-year-old. Forrealz, Doctor, I have made it very clear to you that I am terrified out of my mind, at least don't be difficult.
Nurse had to hold down my foot so Doctor could numb it. When I flinched (cause who wouldn't flinch when they're getting a shot in the foot?), Doctor was like, "Now don't you do that," in a stern voice like he was talking to a dog. How rude. When I asked if I was bleeding, he told me, "Well if you were, what would you do about it?" I wanted to punch him, but decided against it since he was using a sharp tool to shovel out chunks of my skin. Doctor with a sharp tool is very scary.
I don't really remember any more of the traumatic experience; I do, however, think I am suffering from a mild case of PTSD. Or not. It's more like a surgery hangover. And it is awful. I have never appreciated feet or opposable thumbs more in my life than I do now.
