As of Monday afternoon’s visit with the dermatological surgeon, I appear to have had a three inch piece of clothesline whip-stitched to my bicep. Only it’s not rope, it’s my skin. This, I am told, is to ensure a better long-term cosmetic result when the scar contracts.
This morning, pre-shower, I removed the original bandage, (which was giving me roughly the arm configuration of Pop-eye,) for the first time. Two extra-wide band-aids seem to provide adequate coverage I discovered, as the ditty “I am stuck on Band-Aids, ‘cause Band-Aid’s stuck on me!” jangled merrily in that part of my brain that just likes to behave that way. The jury’s still out on whether Band-Aid is, in this case, actually stuck on me.
Well, with that patch of traitorous epidermis gone to what is probably a redundant degree, we’ll see whether we carry on with a “chop early and often” approach at my regularly scheduled appointments.
Here, Otis and I are comparing arms. His is, at this point, unscathed.
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