One day about eight months ago I found a lump on my shoulder, just under the skin. It was about the size of a pencil eraser. It did not hurt even one bit. I am task-focused and results-oriented and patient-centred in my approach to my own medical care, however, so I asked my doctor about it anyway. Even though it didn't hurt.

"Physician," I asked, "am I going to die?"

"Yes," the doctor replied.

"Oh," I said. "Any idea when?"

"No."

There was a pause.

"So," I continued, "Is this lump on my shoulder going to be the thing that kills me?"

"Nope. The thing that kills you is going to be a baby grand piano that falls on your head. You will be 96 years old at the time and, save for the piano's death-blow, in marvelous health."

"Basically you're saying don't worry about the thing on the shoulder?"

"Correct."

"Will it go away all by itself?"

"No. Get used to being disfigured."

"Rats."

"It is called a sebaceous cyst, by the way."

"Will I be able to play the violin with it?"

"Get out of my office, or I will stick you with this syringe full of Legionnaire's Disease."

So I left the doctor's and had a very happy eight months, during which I occasionally fondled my sebaceous cyst to see if it was going away. It was not, but it did not hurt either.

Then one Friday morning three weeks ago I woke up to find that my friendly little bump had turned angry. It had grown to the size of a table tennis ball overnight, and it was bright red. It totally smarted.

I went to work and came home and in the evening it smarted even more so I tried to medicate myself by inventing a cocktail called the "Dirty Vicar," which was two parts tequila, one part grapefruit juice, and one part dry sherry. The Dirty Vicar was tastier than you might think, but it was of only marginal medicinal value.

On Saturday morning I felt like I had been shot. Right right through my sebaceous cyst. It was bigger than a golf ball and was starting to look yellowish around the sides of its large sloping dome.

"Do you think that's bruised tissue," I asked Kate, "or are we seeing pus through the skin?"

"Please put your shirt back on," Kate said, "and do not ever talk to me like that again."

That morning I went to a walk-in clinic, where the attending physician gave me penicillin and told me not to try popping it, no matter how curious I got.

"Even if I wash my hands first?" I asked.

"Go ahead if you must, but know that you will get infection juice on your hands and under your nails. Infection juice smells like rotting meat."

"Why?"

"Because it is rotting meat."

By Thursday the penicillin was starting to make my sebaceous cyst smaller. It had grown a little black dot on top. Frankly it (the black dot) looked like the sort of thing those Bioré nose-strips were designed to pull out. I was curious. I did not want infection sauce on me. Indecision immobilized me until it was time to see my family doctor that afternoon.

"So, captain smarty-doc, who's not worrying about a little cyst now?"

"Me."

"..."

"But it looks like a challenge, so I am going to perform surgery on you now."

Then the doctor injected me with novocaine and got out his scalpel. He sliced right through the black dot on top. Then, with his thumbs, he pushed the sides of the dome so the infection juice welled up in the incision. He blotted with some gauze and repeated. There was really a lot of infection juice. It was the colour of butter pecan ice cream. After much thumbery, the doctor spoke again.

"Normally you only want to drain the unpleasantness," he said. "But I think I can get the cyst too."

Then he totally dug his thumbs in. Then he squeezed.

"Quirst!" said the incision, as my sebaceous cyst burst out and hit the doctor on the upper lip. Quickly, he popped it in his mouth and swallowed it.

The sound touched off a memory. Do any of you remember a tinned lemonade beverage product called "Quirst"? I always wanted to try it but never got the chance.

I am all better now, in case you were worried.

Posted by Bret at April 8, 2003 04:38 PM