Despite my attraction to medical movies and hospital TV series, in real life I hate needles, scalpels and anything remotely hospital-like. I avoid doctors like the plague, and I trust my own diagnosis to that of any medical expert. But, as life would have it, last week I had to ‘have some work done!'

For as long as I can remember I've had a mole under my nose. It wasn't unpleasant except when it had company -puberty pimples which turned my face into a join-the-dots canvas. Apart from then, it never really bothered me, not even when kids pointed their finger right at it, grimaced in disgust, and at the top of their voice asked, ‘what is that ma?' ‘Maaaaa what is that?' My answers ranged from ‘it' being the dried up pooh of the cockroach that lives up my nose, to ‘it' being a crusted bogy that I cannot be bothered to remove.

As much as I loved having fun with it, lately it acquired a life of its own. It started to grow and to get darker, so I finally had it checked out and scheduled its complete and utter annihilation.

Let's just say that the experience was a particular one.

You see, my type of surgery is considered to be less than minor. For people in the medical profession, it is the equivalent of a jogger having to stop to take a crap behind a tree - it's annoying, it's necessary, but it's entirely doable and without long term consequences.

But for me, it was a big big deal.

As unsightly as some might think it is to have a dark thing jutting out from under your nose, I quite loved my mole. It had seen me through thick and thin, and because of it I was many a time compared to Cindy Crawford. We had grown up together; we both hated my hay fever attacks, and the rough tissue scrapes that came with it. To cut a long story short, my relationship with the mole was the longest bond I've ever had with anyone or anything. Of course, the fact that it was physiologically stuck to my face might have something to do with the longevity of the relationship, but I digress.

When the day arrived, I took half a day off work and went for my surgery. I had no doubt that the surgeon would not remember me, after all, I did not have some interesting, life-threatening and unique medical condition which he'd be writing a medical paper about. It was just a crap in the woods.

Even when it took them over two hours to call me in, I wasn't that surprised. Clearly there were many more important patients than me. After all I wasn't about to drop dead any time soon, unless of course the anticipation, the waiting, and the imagining gave me a heart attack - ‘what if they call me in when he's too tired? He must be hungry now. What if he has other things on his mind? What if I'm the last patient of the day and all he's thinking about is getting home to his wife? Is he married? Does he know that it's my face that's at stake here?'

When I was finally called up to theatre, I soon realised that I was being squeezed in between other patients, so, whilst struggling to keep my wits together, I asked the medical staff whether they wanted me to come back on another day, but they insisted that I stay.

Soon enough a nurse came in to put some thick white cream under my nose. I asked if it was meant to numb the skin before they injected the anaesthetic, but to my shock and horror she said that that was the only anaesthetic I was getting. ‘This is it' she said unmoved by my wide eyes and dropped jaw. My mind started to race once again. First it said ‘run, get out, don't look back, just run', and then it whispered ‘don't panic, they know what they're doing, they know what they're doing.... I think!'

I sat there rerunning a scene from NipTuck - the one where the general anaesthetic did not take, and where the patient could feel every cut and prick during her surgery. She could hear the surgeons converse, but couldn't talk or move. ‘Think nice thoughts, think blue skies' it whispered again.

When the surgeon finally came into the room he took one look at me and my partner and candidly asked ‘so who's the patient?' Apparently the white stuff on my face and the shaking limbs were not strong enough clues. Once I identified myself as the patient, he removed the cream from under my nose, revealed the culprit, nodded and walked away. I was then asked to wear a hospital gown on top of my clothes and a pair of plastic covers over my shoes. Finally I was taken to the operating theatre, put on the operating table, and the blinding lights were switched on.

A few seconds later the surgeon came back in. He proceeded to cover my face, and my eyes with blue sheets, and he pulled me so close towards him that I could hear his tummy rumble - ‘Oh God he's hungry, he's hungry! Is he married? Would his wife have given him a packed lunch? Does he know it's my face he's operating on? Will that anaesthetic cream work?'

With my mind in overdrive I heard him say something about feeling a little pinch - ‘don't they always say that when they are about to stab you?' And suddenly a stinging sensation went through my face, up to my forehead and down my spine. The feeling was so intense that I had uncontrollable tears streaming down my face. I didn't budge. Having been told that the cream was the only anaesthetic that I was going to get, I braced myself for this torture. Thankfully though, that unbearable sting was in fact from the injected anaesthetic!!!

From this point onwards I felt absolutely nothing at all. He cut and sewed away for the next half hour. He shared a couple of jokes with his nurse, assured me that all was ok, and soon enough it was over.

Now I'm just missing my mole. I'm still red and sore and I will always have a small scar where it used to be - a long lasting memory of my good old and loyal friend. Wherever it is being tested and dissected, I hope it knows that we had no choice but to go our separate ways.

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