Ode to Sarah; or The Desiccator Demands Your Attention

Because this year, apparently, is the year I will earn the nickname “Lumpy”, I’ve had yet another one removed.

The first?  Ganglion.

The second?  Lipoma.

The third?  An odd mole.

The fourth?  Sebaceous.

It just keeps getting prettier, don’t it?

I am in the doctor’s office, awaiting the removal of Lump Three.   And the device attached to the wall?

The McKesson 22-900 Desiccator.

The Desiccator!

Ring-ring!  Ring-ring!

"Hello! This is Sarah."

“Sarah,” I whisper.  “Working on removal of my third weirdness in under a year, and I just have to tell someone:  I’m in the presence of the Desiccator!”

I hear the click-click-click of her turn signal.

“Oh, hey,” I apologize, “You in traffic?  I can call you back.”

“Pfft,” she says.  “Hands-free, baby.  What’s this about a desiccator now?”

“It’s mole-removal time.”

“The one on your back?”

I shift my phone from my right ear to my left.  “What, does everyone know?”

“Just me and your doctor,” says the woman in the medical industry.

“Never mind that,” I say.  “Can you believe there’s something called the desiccator in here?   It’s like I’m about to be invaded by Mongols or something.”

“What?” she shouts.  “No brake lights?  Moron!”  Her tone changes.  “Sorry.  And yes.  The Desiccator: it dries and slices.”

I rifle through the doctor’s pile of ancient Good Housekeeping magazines.  “What am I,” I say, “Beef jerky?”

Sarah laughs.  “Close!  Do you know I was in on the testing of that particular machine?”  There is the sound of a car honking.  “Hey – you know how we tested it?” 

“I have no idea.”

“Steak!”  She sounds triumphant.  “Pounds and pounds of high-grade beef!  Close to human flesh, you know.  Tested it for how many cuts it can make before it –“

“OK, OK,” I laugh.  “I’m about to sliced.”

“Yes, you are,” she says.  “But it will be sharp and clean and pretty much painless.  What are you doing afterward?”

I shrug, secure that she knows that I am shrugging.  “Waiting for the Lidocaine to wear off?”

“Only while eating sushi!” she declares.  “Pick you up?  Our usual downtown spot?”

I smile, secure that she knows that I am smiling.  “Give me 30 minutes,” I say.

“See you then,” she says.

“Hey!” I yell.

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” I say.

She laughs.  “I love you, too.”

Click.