Stella! Stella!

So here I sit, ripe for the picking, or drawing, as the case may be. We're having a blood drive today on campus and I scheduled my "draw" for 12:30 but the busses are chock full o'donors so I'm going back later this afternoon. I'm anxious about donating too, which is causing my blood pressure to rise as I wait. I'm not wiggy over needles or anything like that, but I am nervous about passing out or being woozy afterwards. As I get older, I notice that medical procedures have an ill effect on my psyche.

Case in point. After Christmas this past year, I had Stella removed. Stella was this rather large ganglion cyst that took up residence on my left wrist. Large is an understatement. Stella used to come and go but within the last year of her life, she grew to enormous proportions. Look down at your wrist. Yes, right now. Imagine a golf ball under the skin on the top of your wrist. That's just about as big as Stella got. She got so big we had to name her. And what a conversation piece she was! I used to freak my boss out with her all the time. I'd simply bend my wrist, exploiting Stella as best I could, and just stick her in Techtard's doorway, no body, no face, just my hand and Stella. Techtard would scream in horror. Stella was my conjoined twin. My wrist cyst. My friend.

I finally decided it was time for her to go when I caught some students staring at her from across my desk. The look on their faces was hilarious. Shock, horror, disgust, humor, it was all there. I realized my conversation piece was becoming a spectacle so I visited my orthopaedic surgeon. Even he was in awe of Stella's proportions. Apparently she had rooted deep down and it was going to take a healthy amount of digging to remove her.

So on December 29, 2004, Stella was removed. I woke up in the middle of the procedure and remember asking the doctor if he would save Stella in a jar for Techtard. I was quickly given more medication to knock me out. I can't imagine why.

Three weeks later I returned to have my cast and stitches removed. What an ordeal that became. The physical therapist began by cutting off my cast, then unwrapping some bandages, and as she was doing so, I was cracking jokes and making light banter, until the final bandage was removed and there was this black and blue scar from where Stella once resided.

I passed out. And when I came to, I started sobbing.

I was deformed! Scarred! UGLY! It was one of the strangest feelings ever to overcome me. I felt so violated and disfigured. And all it was was a one inch incision! How pathetic was I?

So with good reason I sit here stewing over what is going to happen to me once I'm finished giving blood. I don't know when I became such a lightweight. Giving birth was easy. I never felt a labor pain. Labor was induced and because I have some freaky spinal curvature, I was poked a dozen times in the lower back before receiving my epidural. Once the line was in, I was juiced up for about 12 hours. I never felt a thing, until, of course, the damn thing wore off and not only did it feel like my innards were now outtards, I had this wicked back pain that felt like, well, being poked a dozen times with a 6 inch needle. Birth seemed like a picnic compared to my Stella ordeal.

I'll keep you posted, my three faithful readers, on how I weather the blood storm. As with many aspects of my life, I'm sure there will be something of epic comedic proportions to report on. Funny stuff finds me, no matter where I am. Usually it lands in the form of a ketchup stain on my shirt, showcased nicely by my shelf (aka big bazoongas).

It never fails.