Let's Cyst Again

I have detailed a few of my more interesting ailments here. In some ways I feel like this blog is starting to read like a medical history. Admittedly, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. This is true. But I have had quite a lot of medical dealies that weren't the result of my own paranoia. When I broke my hand, I remember denying for hours that it was broken on the basis that I didn't want to have broken a bone in such a phenomenally stupid manner. As you probably know, I would go on to much bigger and stupider injuries. My medical woes aren't always the result of me being an idiot though. I was thinking about this the other day, and it reminded me that I haven't yet mentioned that time I had a bit of the old plastic surgeries.

Yes, you heard it hear first folks: Smackie Onassis had plastic surgery. When I start off telling this story, even when I preface it by explaining that plastic surgery and cosmetic surgery are not the same thing, everyone has the same reaction:

"Boobs, right? I knew it."

No, I did not have breast augmentation. Look through my school photos if you don't believe me. I was already being catcalled by boys in my class when I was 12 years old, something I found more than a little strange and frightening. I have back problems as it is, I can't imagine anything I would want less than big old fake breasts.

The surgery I had was not cosmetic. There was a cyst growing in an unfortunate spot on my forehead and even though it posed no real threats to my health, it was getting bigger and it was a pain in the arse. Also it was in the middle of my damn forehead and all my friends kept trying to squeeze it. So, I was booked in for minor surgery.

It was just a local anaesthetic. I could understand that - general anaesthetics are much riskier. Unfortunately it meant I was wide awake while a surgeon cut open my head. I'm not going to lie to you, it was pretty awful. The worst thing is, it grew back. I was booked in for a second operation.

About halfway through the second procedure, I felt the surgeon stop what he was doing. It was then that I heard the single last thing you ever want to hear when a medical professional has a scalpel sticking into your head.

"Huh."

Something had surprised him.

"So that's why it grew back," he continued, muttering to himself. And yes, even though this was many years ago I can remember exactly what he said. It's not the kind of thing you forget.

"Hey! Awake down here! What's going on?" I would have spoken up if I could manage to get my vocal chords working. I didn't actually say anything, but I guess the doctor remembered where he was and decided that I would probably want to know what had happened.

"Don't worry," he said, "There was a little nest of them in there. I'll be able to get them all out."

Admittedly he was talking about sebaceous cysts and not horrifying spiders, but that's kinda the image that is conjured up by that particular turn of phrase.

The rest of the surgery went off without a hitch and I got to walk around for a bit with my head bandaged up like an old-school slapstick actor. My only disappointment was that he had been such a good surgeon that my scar was barely visible. You may think that's a good thing, but keep in mind that the tiny excuse for a scar that I do have is at the top right of my forehead, just below my hairline. If he hadn't done such a neat job, I would have the exact same scar as Harry friggin Potter. I can even remember my little sister telling me I should ask him to cut it in the shape of a lightening bolt, but I wasn't game to make jokes during a surgical procedure. 

There is still a scar there, it's just not one you'd see unless it was pointed out. I guess that's kind of ideal, really. Facial scars aren't really viewed as the pillar of feminine attractiveness. Still. Harry Potter.

-Smackie Onassis

An Explanation of How Stupid I Am

Some of you may notice that I did not update my blog yesterday. For most people that might not seem like a big deal. However, I don't know if you've noticed but two entries per day is a slow one for me. And it's not that I didn't have any ideas, far from it. It is just... well, let me explain from the beginning.

Remember how I have a fractured sternum? You know, because I am the smartest person alive and all. Anyway, I have been unable to work since the accident, but now my medical certificate has expired and centrelink has been telling me to get a job. Instead of actually throwing myself back into the workforce, I thought I'd test my strength by doing a volunteer shift at a local op-shop. It was fantastic and I will tell you all about it very soon, but when I found myself in a fair amount of pain after just a few hours of light labour, I figured that I was not ready to go back to real work.

Now, yesterday morning I woke up feeling a bit shit. I was aching from pushing myself too hard yesterday and I was in a bad mood. Vegatrain was kind enough to get me a spinach pastry from the bakery down the road, which I ate a bit too quickly. A funny joke was made and I started laughing.

So, this is the combination of factors that are going on here:
a) fractured sternum, meaning my chest was already kinda sore
b) My heart was beating fast from laughing
c) I got heartburn from eating the pastry too fast

The heartburn would not have been a problem except for the fact that, in a comic twist, I have never actually had heartburn before. Naturally, I thought I was dying. I should probably also add to that list that Meattrain has been watching House lately. Now, I don't watch much TV but I watch enough to know that I am going to die and it is going to be awful. I don't think I have ever got around to watching a full episode of House, but this is what I keep hearing amongst the background noise:

"Patient is fine, normal cold and flu symptoms but nothing... we have a code blue, patient is suddenly and inexplicably bleeding from the eyes and fitting."

So, because I now think that the simplest of symptoms means the worst possible thing is about to happen (hypochondria - totally a disease in its own right), this combination of things - the sore chest, the fast heartbeat, the heartburn - I thought I was totally having a heart attack. Never mind the fact that I am a 5' 1", 22 year old vegetarian female who exercises regularly and so not exactly the most likely candidate for heart failure, I was convinced that I was going to die. According to Vegatrain, I was nearly in tears.

Let me explain something else for you. Recently, I read about Paris Syndrome. My interpretation of this phenomena was that it was a disorder that you get when everything around you is too beautiful for you to handle. My reading about this syndrome coincided with the arrival of my amazing lapdesk which is cushioned and has a drink holder and pen holder and a little light and it fits my laptop on it perfectly with room for a mouse. There was a moment when I was trying out my new lapdesk, there was nice music playing and I was eating grapes. Earlier, I had, shall we say, been drinking some tea. Listening to some jazz music. Talking to my friend.*

Naturally, I got a bit overwhelmed. Everything around me was amazing and I could feel my face flushing. I could feel a bit of the Paris Syndrome coming on. Since then, I have started saying this regularly, whenever anything good happens. I now judge how good something is by how likely it is to give me Paris Syndrome. Vegatrain has been getting very annoyed at my repeated insistence that I have a medical condition that I basically made up.

But then the events of yesterday occurred and I was lying on the couch, having a mild anxiety attack. Vegatrain came and sat with me.

"Smackie, you're not dying. You just ate a delicious pastry a bit too fast, laughed too hard at a joke and got a bit overwhelmed. That's all. I guess you could say that in all your insistence that you have this stupid made up Paris Syndrome, you actually kinda gave it to yourself. You just need to learn how to not get so worked up over these things."

It was then that I stopped to evaluate my situation. I had invented a disorder that was based on a joke, gone on to actually get symptoms of the disorder under farcical circumstances and was now being given my daily life lesson. I was in a fucking sitcom. I would wager that this is actually a plot that has been used and if not, why not? I could hear the damn theme music in my head.

When I realised this, I did tell Vegatrain that it was giving me a touch of the Paris Syndrome, but jokes! And we hugged and moved onto the next wacky adventure.

-Smackie Onassis



*Rejected: "burying some bones in the backyard". There is nothing good that can mean.