Posted by terrance | Filed under Happenings, Random Musings
Last week, your friendly neighborhood GraveRobber underwent surgery, surgery. Below is an account of the experience, including photos? so if you haven?t the stomach for scalpels and blood, or simply prefer not to have your recollections of me, or the characters I play in film, sullied with skin growths, puss, and bile, then read no further. If, however, you?re brave enough to join me in the ?infected tent?, then peel off your bandaids, grab a pastrami sandwich, and roll up a gurney for a little surgery storytime!
I can?t feel nothing at all?
The skin on my scalp is prone to cysts. Other than this nasty malady, I?m extremely fortunate in the physical health department. I was born with all my limbs intact, never needed braces, have perfect vision, and can count the times I?ve had to visit a doctor on one hand. This fitness lottery ticket has been a blessing for this broke-ass, non-health-insurance-card-carrying artist, but it?s also left me ill-prepared to navigate the counterintuitive, bureaucratic nature of America?s healthcare system.
As I was saying, I?m prone to cysts. Sebaceous cysts, to be specific. These growths, commonly brought about by clogged hair follicles, are like big pimples. They sprout like grapes on a vine, grow, and don?t go away without surgery. Although unsightly, these cysts aren?t dangerous. In my case, I?ve had a handful of of them on my noggin, hidden beneath my hair, for years.
Over the last twelve months or so, one of these fatty masses, located near my hairline, grew to the point where it was not only visible, but became an irritant whenever I?d wear headphones or run a brush through my mane. This particular cyst?let?s call him Lucius?was also a source of embarrassment.
Earlier this year, sitting in the makeup chair on the set of The Devil?s Carnival, the makeup team would stretch latex and rubber over my skull each night to transform me into the character of Lucifer. During this process, I?d weather shame and self-consciousness, worried that I was grossing out my coworkers with my cysts. Or, at the very least, being judged. Every time a new artist would apply the Lucifer prosthetics, I?d preemptively announce, ?don?t worry, it?s not contagious.? The same awkwardness held true with barbers, and pretty much anyone who came in contact with my pebbly pate.
On The Devil?s Carnival?s road tours, I found myself hiding my cyst-laden cranium beneath beanies and hats for fear of weirding out fans. One could pretty much gage my confidence level on a given night based on whether or not I was sporting a cap.
Worse, I?d usually feel bad about feeling bad over something so minor. My bashfulness seemed petty in the knowledge of people suffering from way worse physical afflictions than my own? some of whom may have been seated in our audiences on tour, many of whom suffered from ailments that were probably incurable. I also felt like a pansy for putting such stock in my appearance. This critical awareness did little to temper my insecurities, however. Like a killer who knows that DNA evidence could lead to capture yet still jerks off at the crime scene, I could not repress my self-consciousness.
In the spirit of cleaning house to wrap up 2012, I decided to deal with my cysts. In October, I filed my taxes, organized my studio, groomed the Minotaur, and made inquiries to have Lucius permanently detached from my dome. And, in the spirit of conquering my fears by facing them, I also committed to sharing the experience?cysts and all?in this blog.
With a cut and stitch?
Before I go into the gory details of the operation, I feel compelled to mention the experience of piloting the American healthcare system without medical insurance? an adventure far more gruesome than the surgery itself.
I?d heard the horror stories about American healthcare. We all have. But I naively believed that living in Los Angeles?one of the largest, most diverse cities in the free world?with cash in hand, and knowledge of the procedure I needed, I could readily find a facility that would help. How wrong I was?
Like a responsible citizen, I started out by researching my ailment, including the complexity and cost of the removal process. I did this before burdening the waiting room of a clinic with my presence, taking seats away from someone who might need attention more than I. Armed with knowledge on sebaceous cysts, I contacted a handful of local medical centers, explained exactly what I needed, asked for a quote, and announced that I?d be paying cash. Apparently, saying that you won?t be using a third party system to pay is on par with asking to barter with seashells, as I was met with bewilderment at every turn. A cyst removal, I might add, is a relatively inexpensive procedure.
I eventually found a clinic, made an appointment, paid the visiting fee (which was non-refundable, but allegedly would be deposited against the cost of the surgery), sat down on the doctor?s slab, and braced myself for the knife. Instead, I was informed that the surgery would need to be a separate visit, at a separate location, with a different doctor, and that the visitation fee I paid was basically just for the referral. Even though I was crystal-clear about what I needed before arrival, and that I didn?t require an incidental system to handle payment or reference, here I was, cash in hand, being made to jump through hoops.
Resentfully, I took their referral, but expressed how I viewed their lack of transparency regarding the predictable outcome of my visit as an unethical affront. They apologized, and then warranted that I would 100% be treated by a surgeon at the new clinic. They also gave me a comprehensive quote on what the procedure would cost per cyst (I had funds enough to remove two, including Lucius).
By the time the second appointment rolled around, I was more than eager to have the operation, and to put this affair behind me. But because of the prior experience, I was also skeptical. Apprehensively, I paid for another office visit, which I was now informed would not be credited towards the procedure. I was also told that the doctor would only have time to remove one cyst, that if I wanted more than one removed, I?d need to make another appointment, and pay for yet another office visit.
As you can imagine, this news was not only disappointing, but infuriating. I held my tongue, clinched my jaw, and repeated a silent mantra that a hospital was no place for a spree killing. I also considered the ramifications of insulting a surgeon before surgery. This would be akin to insulting a chef before dining, and then wondering how the loogie came to be a-floating in my soup.
Frustration aside, I?d like to state that both of the doctors I saw struck me as honest, altruistic people who, through no choice of their own, were made to contend with an asinine, counterproductive system to deliver their art. I am thankful that these compassionate souls exist, but wish the American medical ministry was more about doctors and patients and less about paperwork.
Once all of the bureaucratic roadblocks were hurdled, my time spent under the knife was remarkably quick and painless. The doc even allowed photos to be taken of the extraction process, including posing for a snapshot while holding the removed cyst and flashing devil horns (Courtney, thanks for photographing the filthy proceeding without vomiting or passing out!). The whole affair took about fifteen minutes, which included numbing the area, making an incision, squeezing out the grape-sized intruder?a pink glob that looked like a fetus?and then stitching me back up. In two-weeks? time, the three stitches can be removed. I?ll be doing this myself as I?ll be damned if I?ll pay for another hospital visit for such a simple task. I also refuse to pay for what will most likely be a hidden referral fee for a hidden referral to a stitch specialist.
Even with my surgeon?who I knew had seen far greater monstrosities than the minefield on the roof of my skull?I felt pangs of embarrassment as she examined, and then excised, the cyst? so I am relieved to share that Lucius is gone (burned or buried at sea, I hope!) and that my scalp, and my pride, have begun the healing process. Please help me in bidding Lucius, adieu.
If you feel so inclined, please share some of your own medical war stories below (I?m tempted to say pictures or it didn?t happen, but I?m not sure this blog allows photo attachments).
Source: http://www.terrancezdunich.com/blog/surgery-surgery/
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