Thank God For Small Favors (0.5 mg)
Tomorrow, Georgia has to go back to the dermatologist to remove more of the area where her biopsy was. Turns out, she had some “atypical” cells-- something that could possibly turn bad in ten years, so they wanted to be safe and get it now. I’ve already had to cancel the procedure once, because George pussed out, and when I told her I’d rescheduled, she swore she was going to cancel it again.
I tried everything to change her mind. I guilted her, explaining how I’d have to spend the last dwindling days of my youthful middle age worrying about it constantly, how I’d be reminded every time I saw the letter C or ate a raisin. I warned her she could lose her leg, and reminded her she’s far too clumsy to jog with a prosthetic. No matter what I said, though, I got the same answer: NOT going.
When I finally gave up and called to say I was canceling again, she said very casually, “Yeah, I’m going.”
So today, I called the doctor’s office anyway:
TR: Hello. My daughter Georgia has a 10 o’clock appointment in the morning for minor surgery. I don’t know if y’all keep notes or anything, but Laurel can tell you that this girl is the biggest crybaby that ever had a freckle. This is the second time the surgery has been scheduled, and I’m only about six percent sure she’ll actually show up.
If she does show, it would be best not to keep her in the waiting room with the other patients and to make sure she’s in the most remote part of the building when they cut her—unless your rooms are sound proof. Also, I suggest removing all surgical instruments and syringes—especially syringes--from view until she’s safely tied down.
OR you guys could just prescribe some Xanax or Ativan, and save us all a lot of trouble.
Nurse Dottie: Oh, I don’t think you understand. This is a very minor procedure. We’ll numb the area and put a little ice on it; I promise, she won’t feel a thing.
TR: No, Ma’am, I don’t think you understand. This is a big girl, 18, who acts like a three-year-old at naptime. Can you imagine chasing and holding down a hundred-and-twenty-pound toddler? Go ask Laurel, the PA who worked on her before.
Nurse Dottie: Hold for just a moment, please.
Nurse Dottie: Ma’am?
TR: I'm here.
Nurse Dottie: We’ve called in Xanax. Have her take one tonight, another tablet two hours before arriving in the morning, and there’ll be a couple of extra if she’s still upset tomorrow afternoon.
TR: That's what I figured.