I had a tiny mole on my back removed today. In my usual style, I sweat through my robe while waiting for the small procedure to start, and I rambled like a lunatic in an attempt to calm myself down: "I feel like I'm about to get a tattoo. If I was getting a tattoo, what would I get? Hey Dr. Lee, I have an idea! You should punch moles out in cool shapes like those craft paper punchers in the shapes of stars and hearts. Then people would have cool-shaped scars." She laughed quietly, "Um, that's not exactly how it works." Doctors--always gotta wreck a girl's dreams.
I had Tommie with me for emotional support...or so I thought. He was supposed to hold my hand and tell me how brave I was, but halfway through the procedure he leaned against the wall and I noticed that his pale complexion had become even more pale. So, as I lay there with a hole carved in my back, the doctor and I start comforting Tommie--telling him everything is okay, I'm doing great, and that he can go sit down, have some water, and turn on the air. He blames the balmy 75 degree temperature in the room. (Sure.) He kept trying to get back up and stand by me, but he was getting whiter by the minute and I didn't want him to faint on top of all the sharp objects lying around so I told him to sit back down.
I survived the process, and Tommie, while not exactly doing his job the way I had planned did manage to distract me from my own discomfort by having me worry about his.
Again, I am reminded of our very wise decision to never endure childbirth. We can barely make it through a mole...I mean, we're wicked brave...it's just that it was a swealtering 75 degrees in the room.