Pyogenic Granuloma: The Bleeding Tumor Of Harmlessness

My skin has been sensitive. So sensitive that it’s been impossible to wear my wedding ring because it gives me a rash, which I find hilarious. Not only does it increase the number of people thinking I’m a teen mom, but I get to look at The Dave and say to him OUR LOVE IS CHAFING ME! That might not be on everyone’s bucket list, but it was on mine. Check.

Back in the middle of December, I got a small rash on my back from my over-the-shoulder bag. No problem. Some cream and a band aid and good as new. (This is also my solution to most of my marital problems too.) Then, the day before I left for New York, I’m working and I notice something slimy oozing down my back. BLOOD. A Mississippi river of blood was cascading down my back. My clothes looked like I was some waitress trying to make it big on the set of some B-grade horror movie.

Further investigation revealed that no, I had not been shot or stabbed, I had a bleeding tumor-like object protruding from my back. And for the record, I wish this story did end with shot or stabbed, because those are so much more sexy than a bleeding tumor.

WebMD convinced me I was dying of cancer and when I came back from NYC, I kissed Dave farewell and went to the doctor. You know, it’s never a good thing when you’re spontaneouslybleeding nickle-sized tumor grosses the nurse out. I’m pretty sure she thought I was dying too, because she had the doctor in the room in two seconds after I had taken off my shirt. Making it the first time that removal of my clothes has actually LURED people into a room. WIN. And I have to say, my doctor is a cool customer. I get the feeling she’d make me birth my child squatting over a hole in a barn, because, whatever, lowers your insurance costs. But when she saw my oozing sore, she was so excited. Like she’d won the lottery of grossness. She poked me and declared in triumph, “I know what this is!” And proceeded to explain to me what a pyogenic granuloma is. But before you Google it, I’ll tell you. It’s a bleeding tumor-like object that occurs in 5% of pregnant women, it’s harmless and it’s only value is in making your sister-in-law want to vomit.

And I’ve never wanted a life-threatening disease, but honestly, if I have to walk around with this crap on my back, can’t I just get some sort of dire life or death scenario to accompany it? No. My granuloma has the distinct pleasure of being the personality equivalent of Bristol Palin, dumb and not particularly charming.

To get this off my back, I needed to go to the dermatologist. My doctor made me an appointment with the only dermatologist who had time in the next three weeks and then asked if she could show the nurses.

You’d think this is over? It’s not. I call my husband to let him know, GOOD NEWS! I AM NOT DYING! My festering tumor is harmless, I get it taken off Dec 30. Your child will have a mother. Let’s rejoice.

Ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a pause to remind you that I love my husband. I love him. I do. But this…THIS. This was a moment of beauty.

Dave: [pause] “Can you move your appointment to after January 1? Our insurance switches over and we can save money.”

My response was something like: “ASDGKJEDKJELJLDSKJGLKJDGKLJDLKJFLKSJFAKLSJ!!!” Hangs up phone.

That night, Dave came home and said, “Wife, I’m sorry for what I said before. I don’t think I made you understand. We could save a lot of money if you wait. In fact, I’m willing to give you the money we save if you wait.”

Did I mention that my tumor spontaneously bleeds Mississippi River’s of blood?
The answer was no. I can’t be bought, neither can my dignity and I’m pretty sure I am going to spit into your food for the next week so watch out.

Dave calmly accepted my answer and said nothing of the issue, until December 28, when I received a phone call from the dermatologist at9AM explaining that my doctor had been called in on jury duty and we’d have to reschedule for January 10. I made the appointment, walked to where Dave was still sleeping and broke into sobs. He was gracious and kind, and patted my head and promised to help me dress my bleeding tumor, but I know there was a gleam of triumph in his eye.

For now, he’s named the growth Steve and decided it needs a theme song.

But the takeaways I want you to have from this post include the following. Abstinence prevents bleeding tumors and don’t go head-to-head with Dave when it comes to saving money.


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