Oh Mama, my neck is cut!

Slice, slice, snip, snip
Unedited by Steve
There I was this past Monday ... bleeding from the neck.
Yes, sad to report I had surgery at mid-afternoon that day. Do you feel sorry for me? If not you should. Did I mention the bleeding?
There’s been this annoying little bump on the back of my neck, see. Been there for a couple years maybe. Gets all angry and nasty and gross and messy, but then calms down again in a cycle that had become gall dang annoying.
Wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t behave either.
So finally I said, “Off with its head” and went “under the knife” as they say.
So far in my 58 years on earth I’ve escaped the surgeon for the most part. A memorable experience as a child in North Platte resulted in no more tonsils or adenoids. I still remember feeling like someone was pointing a flame thrower down my throat.
Then there was the knee that locked up in the folded back position (visualize a mostly closed jackknife) during my Early Manhood Period. They had to open it up and clean up a bunch of cartilage damage. That time the post-surgery flame thrower was aimed lower, but just as searing hot.
In between tonsils and knee lies my Hormone Overload Pugilist Period in which the high school version of Steve got in a couple incidents of semi-serious fisticuffs. After those two bouts I came to realize my potential in the “sweet science” was nil and retired with a record of 1-1. Trouble was, the only fight I won still resulted in a trip to the arthropod in Lincoln for surgery. He pinned the fifth metacarpal of the right hand back together.
You might want to write this down: Continuing to deliver blows after a bone has broken in your hand complicates matters for the doctor later on.
That’s been pretty much it for me surgery-wise until this week. Did I remember to mention the part about me bleeding from the neck?
And so, all cowboyed up and girded against certain excruciating pain, I marched bravely into Dr. Growney’s office.
When Good Nurse Norma showed up I assumed it was to support me as I suffered the ordeal. Naw. Turns out she just likes to see people cut stuff out of other people. After discovering her mission was less about mercy and more about a fascination with gore, I tried to stick her with the $20 co-pay. Suggested she think of it as the price of admission.
Soon it was off with the shirt and in with the needles bearing magic potion to numb me up. A little burning was noticeable, but nothing unbearable. Then it was time for Dr. Growney to get out the knife and dig in ... literally.
We went into the procedure room at 3:50 and I was on my way home by 4:10. No pain. No suffering. No sympathy and, worst of all, no ice cream ... at least I got that when the tonsils went.
I’m aware the whole incident could rightly be sniffed at and dismissed as “just” minor surgery. But here’s what I learned: It’s only “minor” surgery to me if you’re the one doing the bleeding.
Contact — stephen.moseley@yorknewstimes.com