So I got my referral and headed off with Mr H to the plastic surgeon to have them removed. Mr H was there as I was still feeding Immy and she came too, and also as I tend to faint with the talk of blood and needles it is best I don't drive there and back.
The surgeon talked about what we needed to do, the risks etc and that we could do it in the chair that day. I was nodding, I was keen to just get started.
He asked me if I was feeling ok. Sure I said, let's go.
No, he said. You are way too pale. You look like a ghost. One look at you and I know your blood pressure has dropped. Your fight or flight reaction has set in and your body wants to run you out of here.
He said the operation was not a biggie, but my reaction made it unsafe to do in the rooms, instead, he would admit me to the private hospital, in a year, when I was not a nursing mother and didn't have two under three to be looking after at home.
I went home with my ugly moles.
I still have them.
They are still ugly.
They still bother me, but not so much as they did at that particular time.
I will get them removed, but the cost is higher as I have to be admitted to the hospital.
I hate how my body reacts to anything at all that is about blood, gore, needles and cuts. But I can't control the reaction. My body takes over.
Can you imagine what I looked like at work yesterday when I was outside the morgue, in the wrong part of the hospital, desperate to find my way and walking in a little circle doing breathing exercises? I don't usually work anywhere near this building. The man who found me seemed to barely notice, but quickly sent me in the right direction, and finished with, "the doors at the end, they take you straight outside, if you need them'. You can be sure that I used those doors, to ensure no trolleys came rolling past me on my way out.
How are you with such things? Piece of cake or woozy?