I had basal cell carcinoma on the side of my nose, which required Moh’s surgery, where they slice it out layer by layer, taking 60-90 minutes between cuts to biopsy what they removed until the tumor is gone. I knew this would be a long day, so I packed food, water, and my laptop, looking forward to a quiet writing retreat.

Here’s what actually happened.

After the first cut (above), I’m ushered to the lounge specifically for Moh’s patients. I choose a well-worn black leather recliner and get comfortable. A man in the opposite corner is sporting a bandage on his cheek and forehead. Next to him, an older woman has a cheek bandage. Next to me is a man with a bandage on the back of his head.

The news on TV is making it hard to concentrate on editing Book 2, but one by one, the three of them are called out. I turn off the TV and am in blissful silence. For a few minutes.

Cheek and forehead man returns. I apologize for the TV and say I can turn it back on, but he says, “That’s okay. It’s on a loop. I got tired of hearing the same thing over and over.”

Then, instead of quiet, this man starts talking. I’ll call him Matt. The mostly one-sided conversation is wide ranging. He explains that his mom would use baby oil and lemon juice as sunscreen. I’m flabbergasted. “This was back in the 60s,” he tells me. “We would just char.”

Yikes!

Matt has had 89 stitches on his face and has been coming to this doctor for 15 years. He is now 69.

After some time, an older couple arrive and take the two recliners next to Matt. The woman has a large bandage to the left of her eye. For a moment, it’s quiet, and I think I may be able to get back to work. But Matt decides the presence of others doesn’t mean the conversation is over.

And thus ensued a completely different vibe from the room I first entered that morning.

The new woman is 83. She’s been married 64 years to the man next to her whom she met at 17 when he was 19.

Soon we’re joined by Sister, waiting on her sister who started with a mosquito bite on her arm nearly a year ago that got infected and turned into cancer!

Matt assures everyone that this doctor is the best and leaves minimal scarring.

“Sweetheart, when you get to my age, it doesn’t matter,” the 83-year-old tells him. To me, “You’re a ways behind us, girlie,” she says.

Matt mentions to the newcomers that his wife is a retired nurse and wants to remove the stitches herself.

“Tell them the funny part about your wife’s diagnosis,” I say.

“And she has Parkinson’s,” he tells them to their amusement. (But it’s under control. She also cuts his hair.)

A couple in their 60s arrives to complete our party of 8. The man has a bandage on the back of his head.

I get called back. “Good luck,” Matt says, and I thank him, but the cancer isn’t gone. The doctor has to cut deeper and wider.

I return to the lounge and report in. They grunt or nod their acknowledgement.

“I want to go home,” 83 says.

“I should have brought a deck of cards. We could play pinochle,” I say because I know what old ladies like. 

“Pinochle would be good,” she murmurs. Soon a nurse comes to retrieve her. A moment later we chuckle when the nurse comes back to get 83’s lime-green blanket she’d dropped on her husband’s lap. “She wants her blanket. Sorry,” Nurse says. He falls asleep in the recliner, without the aid of his wife’s blankie.

Matt gets up to use the restroom. “I’ll be back,” he informs us.

“Where do you think you’re going?” New Guy says. “This is Hotel California.”

When Matt returns, he says, “They caught me.”

“Should’ve run for the parking lot,” New Guy says.

“I’m curious. How long have you been here?” he asks Sister.

“Two days.” Laughter all around. “No, two hours,” she tells him.

83 returns. “I gotta wait another hour. There was a little more.” She says to her husband, “Did you give my blanket away?”

“No, that’s it.” He points to the one in her hands.

“Oh, the nurse came and got it? Bless her heart. I thought I snookered her out of a second one.”

When Matt gets called back, New Guy says, “We wish you the best of luck.”

83 announces she’s going to the restroom. “Hang onto that blanket,” she tells her husband. We all laugh. When she returns she asks her husband if he needs anything.

“No, I”m happy,” he says.

“You have crumbs on your belly,” she says, dotting them up with her finger. “That’s how I know you’re happy.”

When Mosquito Bite is called back, Sister asks what the procedure is. Her sister has Alzheimer’s. “She may have been told, but doesn’t remember.”

The level of humanity deepens. Matt has Crohns, leukemia, and diabetes. “When I’ve gone to chemo,” he told us, “No one talks to each other like this.”

I get called back. I collect my things but leave my coffee cup. “I’ll have to come back to throw this away, so don’t worry. I promise I’ll say goodbye.”

Good news. The cancer is gone! I just need to wait for the doctor to finish stitching someone else up. I assume she means Matt and am happy for him.

Eventually, the doctor arrives and tells me my options: Let it close up on its own and leave a whitish circle or get stitches and a white line. I opt for stitches because it will heal much faster (1 week vs 6-8). I’m also thinking how it will mean a faster return to Jiu-Jitsu, even though I will have automatically turned into a villain thanks to now being a scarface.

Hearing the sutures being pulled through my skin is unnerving, but it ends and the doctor tells me, “You did very well.”

“Thank you,” I say, confused. All I did was sit there.

I return to the lounge. “You’re all still here,” I say with delight.

“We thought you left without saying goodbye,” Sister says. “Matt never came back. We’ll never see him again since he’s moving out of state.”

“I can’t believe he didn’t come back!” I say.

“We missed you,” Sister says.

“Awh, I’m touched. I did promise I’d come back. I get the stitches removed Monday. Let’s all coordinate our appointments together.”

They agree and we say our farewells. When I walk outside, Matt is standing on the sidewalk, and it feels movie-like closure appropriate that I get to say goodbye to him too.

“It was real nice talking with you,” he says. “That was a pleasant group of people. I won’t be able to stand outside like this in Kansas City. It will be too hot. It’s 97 degrees and 80% humidity there,” I hear from him for the third time. “I told my wife, once I get into the hotel room, I’ll stop bitching and moaning.”

“I’m sure you’ll still find something,” I say encouragingly.

“Won’t be hard,” he says.

I laugh and get in my car, poised to wave as I drive off, but he doesn’t look.

I had intended to get writing done in the five hours I was at the doctor’s office, and I did do some, but, honestly, the human interaction was better.

For your trivia, guess how many stitches I got. The fun thing is, it’s the same number as the answer to the last trivia question. I told Herb I’d reveal the answer next post, but, apparently, I lied. (Sorry, Herb.)

No one guessed correctly–thankfully not those who guessed numbers in the two digits.

Here’s your second chance!