There Ya Go
The photo that goes with this column doesn’t do justice to what I have named Bumpy. Bumpy is a cyst on my wrist that has slowly grown over the last few months. This is the kind of stuff that happens to one’s body after one has been around for five decades. As we grow older, things just appear, whether they’re cysts, sun spots (I have some of those, too) or bruises that seem to come out of nowhere.
My cyst doesn’t hurt one bit, it’s just not very aesthetically pleasing. Actually, it’s pretty gross-looking. What’s more, it has spawned four much smaller cysts (Bumpy’s children) in the same area.
Recently, Tara and I went to get them checked out by an orthopedic surgeon. She didn’t seem too concerned, and even gave me the option of just leaving it alone. I considered it, given how ridiculously expensive it is just to walk in the door of a clinic or hospital, but I eventually decided to let her go ahead and cut everything out. The surgery will take place in August, sometime after an MRI is done.
Let’s see. An X-ray, an MRI and a surgery. Looks like I’ll be asking Tara for a raise. Every time I go in for some kind of check-up, physical or procedure, I am reminded how much healthcare sucks. Not that the nurses and doctors I’ve seen at Sanford or Avera aren’t top-notch, it’s just gotten so expensive.
I fear the bills that come after more than getting cut open.
There’s a lot of irony that comes with healthcare these days. If I want to get a refill of my blood pressure meds, I was told by a nurse that I have to come in for a physical. I didn’t want a physical, I just wanted more lisinopril. Why irony? Because the last time I had a physical, it came with a $180 bill, which I guarantee made my blood pressure spike after seeing it.
If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.
But I digress. There are much, much worse things that can happen to one’s body than a couple of non-painful cysts, and I do count my blessings. However, I do my best to avoid having to go see someone about health stuff. Still, I am sick of looking at Bumpy and seeing people’s reaction when I show them. It makes me feel like a freak when I see their eyes widen and eyebrows raise as if they saw something actually crawl out of my dry, crepey skin (that also occurs when you get older). That’s why I made the choice to have it removed, even though I’ve been told there’s a pretty decent chance it will come back. If it does, it will go to the grave with me, because there’s no way I’m paying for two X-rays, two MRIs and two surgeries.
It’s my hope the thing gets cut out and doesn’t make a return visit, because who wants to have an oversized gumball protruding from their body? Not me.
I’m mature enough to have a sense of humor about Bumpy — that’s why I named her, to have some fun with my grotesqueness. I laugh at myself when I show her off, but deep down, I really don’t want to refer to myself as a circus freak any longer; I’ve already developed a small complex when it comes to my wrist and would just as soon bid it farewell.
