By the time they called my name, I was emotionally ready to agree to anything.
Remove the mole. Remove the foot. Remove the whole leg if necessary.
Just don’t send me back to that waiting room.
The walk to the theatre felt longer than it should have been. Not physically—just psychologically. Every step felt like I was being escorted into a very polite ambush.
Near the theatre, there was a room labelled pantry. Theatre staff leave their pants in there, and I wondered, “Why do their pants need a special room?” However, the pantless nurses were calm. Too calm. That kind of calm that says, “We do this every day.”
Meanwhile, I was thinking, “Yes, but I don’t.”
They laid me down, explained things in that reassuring tone medical professionals use.
“You’ll feel a small prick.”
A small prick is one of the biggest lies in medicine.
But to be fair, it wasn’t terrible.
Just enough to remind me that I was, in fact, not in control of the situation.
There’s something deeply unsettling about lying still while people discuss your body like it’s a group project.
“Pass me that.”
“Is that enough?”
“Hmm.”
What do you mean hmm?
At some point, I realized something unexpected.
I was calm.
Not because I trusted the process entirely—but because I had no choice.
There’s a strange peace that comes from surrendering control.
Also, I had waited seven hours. At that point, this was the reward.
The procedure itself?
Quick.
Efficient.
Almost anticlimactic.
All that buildup, and suddenly it was done.
“Finished.”
That was it.
No dramatic moment. No music swelling in the background. Just… finished.
As they helped me sit up, I felt a quiet sense of victory.
Not over the mole.
Over the waiting.
And just like that, I was cleared to go home. No family updates. No WhatsApp group. No prayer chain.
Just me—and one less stubborn thing in my life.
But I had underestimated one thing. Recovery. Because the real chaos… was waiting at home.