Last week I noticed that things were a little tender on my c-section scar. Odd because I really haven’t had much sensation at all along the scar, which is somewhat common at an incision site. Or as I like to call it, “My Baby Exit Zone.” I’m kind of thrilled with the fact that when JR asks me how he came out of my belly I can just say, “The doctor opened my belly and got you, of course!” No awkward conversation there, and they would most certainly be awkward because, hello, have you met me?
I gave it a couple days. Things got, well, worse. As in “swollen and hurty and gross” worse. So, I thought it only appropriate to call the man responsible for the scar: my OB/GYN.
After being sent home from my appointment yesterday because the doctor had to go deliver THREE BABIES AT ONCE, I made my way back today to get things checked out. After spending 45 minutes waiting in the exam room (while listening to the woman next door go into EXTENSIVE detail about how *exactly* she recently acquired an STD from a friend of hers with whom she “just let the boundaries get blurry”), the doctor finally came in. After appropriately oooohing and aahhhing over the picture of the baby that I finally brought to him, he took a look at me.
“Oh that’s a cyst. I can take care of it right now.”
“Wait. Why is there a cyst there?”
“Sometimes that happens on c-section scars.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me that could happen?”
“Well it doesn’t happen to everyone, and if we told you everything that could happen, it would be a really long list. Better to deal with issues as they come.”
He asked if I wanted him to “take care of it.” I wasn’t entirely sure what “take care of it” meant, but he sounded so breezy that I figured it couldn’t be so bad. Because I forgot that removing people from other people is part of this guy’s daily life, so most things “aren’t so bad.”
So the doctor turned to the nurse and said, “Please bring me some novacaine, an epi-thingamabob (he didn’t really say that, I just can’t remember what is was called)… and a knife.”
I then proceeded with a lot of “Whoa whoa whoas” and waving of the arms. I asked the doctor what exactly he was planning on doing with the knife and “all of this business.” Yes, I actually said that.
“I’m going to numb you, make a tiny incision, and that will take care of it.”
“But won’t that hurt?”
“Some. But don’t remember how you had a c-section 9 months ago?”
(I love my doctor. LOVE. We have a lovely bantering relationship.)
So the “taking care of” started. There was much stinging, much revisiting of my Lamaze breathing techniques, much praising the high heavens for numbing agents. And before I could “OMGTHATSTINGSLIKETHEDEVIL” I was patched up and sent on my way. But not without a slight warning from my doctor that the things could pop up again, so we need to keep an eye on it. I shrugged and thought to myself, “At least I still don’t have to talk to my son about him coming out of my lady parts.” Might be worth it.