Why Put Off For Tomorrow What You Can Do With A Boxcutter Today

About a month or so ago, I had to have a mole cut out of my back.  You know, like you do.  I had two sets of stitches.  One set on the outside that would allegedly fall out on their own & another set on the inside that would disintegrate.  The outside stitches weren't 'falling out' & were really starting to itch.  It had been 3 or 4 weeks, so I felt safe pulling them out.  Problem was, I couldn't reach them, so I asked John to do it.

Here's where I went wrong:  1) no one likes to perform home surgeries more than John; & 2) John's an Eagle Scout.  I don't know how many of you are aware of this special breed of man that is an Eagle Scout, so let me give you a brief, non-related but important nonetheless, example.  When John & I got iPhones over the summer, I went to work & came back 8 hours later with about 300 apps.  John had two:  flashlight & police scanner.  True story.

Okay, I've given John the greenlight to remove (carefully!) the stitches in my back.  He disappears, presumably to sterilize tweezers & scissors.  No.  No, no, no.  Unbeknownst to me, he had gone out in the garage, you know, where you keep your medical supplies, & came back in with...  Wait for it.  A BOXCUTTER!  And a flashlight.  But, more importantly, a BOXCUTTER!  When I was later relaying this story to Alexis (a nurse) she said, "Well, what did you expect when you asked an Eagle Scout to remove your stitches?"  Touche.

Quick sidenote:  I had also seen my parents around this stitches-itching time & had my mom look at them.  Before even seeing them, or knowing if they were ready to come out, my dad whips out his Swiss Army knife & tries to cut them out of me.  Men!  You do not remove stitches with tools!

It's been a few weeks since the boxcutter incident, the external stitches have been removed (thanks, Mom!), but now the internal stitches are starting to poke through my skin.  I know, it's disgusting.  Stay out of the sun, kids.  I'm back upstairs, in the bathroom, trying to make my arm long enough to reach my back, so I can pull this stupid stitch out with tweezers.  John comes in, sees what I'm doing & disappears back downstairs.  Guess what he came back upstairs with?  Just guess.  A LEATHERMAN!  Luckily, I had somehow managed to reach around & pull the stitch out myself (thanks, yoga!), so the leatherman wasn't needed.

There's still one last remaining internal stitch.  It hasn't started itching or poking through my skin yet.  Stay tuned to learn how John accidentally dismembered me by trying to remove a stitch with hedge trimmers.

This all happened!