19th September 2009

Clarence has been removed. Yes, I named the mole after Clarence, the guardian angel in that old Jimmy Stewart film, It’s a Wonderful Life. I thought it appropriate considering Clarence was sent down to stop Stewart’s character George Bailey from killing himself, something he did by showing George what the world would be like if he wasn’t in it.
Today my wife, baby daughter and I, travelled from our home in Ripponden all the way to Bradford Infirmary. After parking up the trusty Rover, we took the four flights of stairs to ward 19, an Out Patients department that deals with minor surgery. Bradford infirmary is one of those pre-war hospitals that as soon as you walk into it you begin to feel ill. The colours are military blues and greys, and the corridors are long and stark. A depressing place makes you look more favourably on death. We were told to wait outside the small operation room. Through frosted glass, I saw a figure dressed in blue scrubs float around in a brilliant white room. A few moments later, a nurse came out dressed in surgical attire and made funny faces at my daughter. She smiled and the nurse returned it with a bigger smile. Babies do that, don’t they? They make you feel better when you’re feeling down. I can say my daughter’s smile has been a blessing these past few days. A young oriental man followed the nurse a few minutes later with sheets in his hand, which he then put in a medical bin beside me. I was told to follow the nurse into another room. My wife kissed me, and told me everything would be okay, and strange as it sounds, I knew it would be.
After changing in a gown and placing blue protectors over my shoes, I was ushered into the OR. There were four people in that room, which wasn’t very big to begin with. There was the nurse I spoke about, the oriental man, a plumpish girl with thick glasses, and a very tall man. The tall man was the plastic surgeon (not the same I saw previously). He took me through the procedure and mentioned skin cancer a few times. I then had to sign a few consent forms which absolved the hospital should I get an infection from surgery. I remember thinking how well I was taking it all, considering the surgeon had mentioned the “should” word every other sentence. He then asked me to get on a long operating table in the centre of the room. I asked him if he would be using soluble stitches, because I didn’t fancy the thought of having them out in a week’s time. He said that shouldn’t be a problem. The tall surgeon was very considerate and told me everything before he did it. The injections to numb the area were, surprisingly, not as bad as I thought, and was, as described, like a small sting. He then asked for a blade. I tensed, and remained that way during the whole procedure. And maybe this was why conversation came around to my daughter. He asked how old she was, a technique no doubt to help keep my mind from the fact he was slicing my skin off. It turns out he too had a daughter, roughly the same age. We exchanged a few resigned acknowledgements to broken sleep patterns, and upturned world, and then he removed the first mole. One of his assistants asked what he would like to call it, and he named it the lower legion. I then told him I had named the mole Clarence after the Guardian Angel. This amused the group and the oriental man began a conversation about angels, and that there were many different types; Guardian, and Arc were the only two he could bring to mind. He then opened it up to the room to name an Arc Angel. An uncomfortable silence began to descend, so I piped up with Gabriel. He agreed, and because there were no other takers, he called out the name Michael Angelo. No one corrected him. The surgeon then removed the upper legion, and he asked me if I had a name for that one too. I told him no, and without deliberation the oriental man suggested we called it John. Nothing else was said about angels after that, but as I lay there, with all my trust left in the hands of these four people, I hoped the oriental man’s main role stretched only as far as official sheet remover.
The operation took around thirty minutes, and nearly all that time I spent with clenched arse cheeks and the words, “This is for your family” running through my mind. The only other conversation that took place fell again to Clarence, and how long I had it. As before, I took the surgeon through the days leading up to this point, and made reference to what the dermatologist had said, and in typical fashion, his response was to say, “Yes, but sometimes we get it wrong.” Non-committal to the end! After the surgery, I was brought back to the room where I had changed and was taken through a few post surgery measures. I was told the biopsy would be rushed through, but I was still looking at two weeks before receiving the results. I thanked the nurse who smiled at my daughter and told her to pass on my thanks to the team.
My wife was waiting in the canteen. My daughter was in a highchair eating a few strawberries. I must admit, I felt drained, most probably due to the nervousness that had crept in during the surgery, which I must declare now, was not painful in the slightest. My wife saw this, and gave me a warm smile. I looked to my daughter, and she too gave me an equally loving smile. As I joined them and told my wife what had happened, I felt relieved: relieved the surgery had gone well: relieved that Clarence had gone (well, one hopes), and relieved that I have a loving family who will help me through the next few weeks, and should the news be bad, whatever the following months may hold.