One of the things I have to get done today is to remove the one stitch in my left leg that was put there a week and a half ago by my dermatologist. I had some kind of ugly-but-not dangerous thing on my leg that I wanted her to take off. She did and afterwards her nurse showed me, using her shoelaces, how to remove the stitch. It looked simple.
So today, I go to remove the stitch, remembering to pull only one of the dangling pieces of thread. “It should just come right out,” the nurse had said. It doesn’t. In fact, it feels like I’m pulling my skin tighter. Given the horrid weather, the time and the cost, I really don’t want to trek downtown to my doctor’s office. I wish I knew a doctor or nurse in my building. I don’t. My burly handyman is great with fixing things, so I ask him. “Hey, Mike, do you have any experience removing stitches?” “Are you kidding,” he says, “I am very squeamish about those things.” My family would of course be appalled.
Then I remember that there is a doctor’s office right next to my building. I run over, dodging between the many raindrops that fall. The office is neat, and the only one there is the receptionist and her boyfriend (at least that’s what the guy wearing a Red Sox baseball cap sitting next to her appears to be). I explain my problem and ask if it would be possible for the doctor to remove my stitch. “Hold on a second. Let me ask him.” She disappears into the back room.
A few minutes later, a very old man, dressed in a doctor’s white coat, comes out. He looks to be about 90, maybe older. I wonder if he can see well enough to remove my stitch, if he agrees to do it. He is very kind. He takes me to an examining room. Puts an orange-colored antiseptic on the stitch. Looks and finds a sterile package of very large tweezers and scissors. And removes (with some effort) the stitch. He then covers the area with a tiny and professional-looking band-aid, and sends me on my way.
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