In case you're missing the Connie foot photos

Years ago, I had a cyst removed from the back of my neck. It got infected, and after a round of antibiotics, a dermatologist removed it. Later, another cyst appeared on my upper back, and until it too got infected, a dermatologist didn't want to mess with it. 

After the infection, a new dermatologist lanced it, squeezed it, and within months it filled back up. I went several more years with it like that, and while the revolving door of dermatologists ignored it, the thing drove me nuts. 

Epidermoid cysts run in my family. My mother had one removed from her neck after it opened on its own, oozing liquid without her knowledge. The only telling sign was a terrible odor only she noticed and attributed to dirty hair. She blamed it on aging and washed her hair fifty times a day before I discovered the rupture, and she had the thing removed. 

My brother has a golfball-sized cyst on his back that no one seems terribly concerned about, and Darcy had one removed from her arm last year. I suppose there are worst things that run in families.

At the end of our trip while still n California, the cyst grew in size and hurt. Knowing the signs, I had my GYN brother in law take a look at it, and after some probing and poking at it, he told me it probably should be lanced. Of course, by the time I got home, it was the weekend of the fourth of July, and no sane dermatologist was working.

By the time I got into the PA at the office where Darcy had her cyst removed, it was bigger, red, and sore.

I had assumed, having been through this twice before, I would be given an antibiotic and told to come back in two weeks to have the thing removed. 

The nurse took a look at it, hemmed and hawed some, and told me she would have to ask "him" what he wanted to do about it. I told her I wasn't seeing "him" the dermatologist, but "her" the PA. She looked at my chart and told me she would talk to "her" to see what to do, returning a few minutes later with the female PA, a pretty blond woman who was not the type I'd have guessed to be caught dead around something like a nasty, infected cyst. 

Her: "My worry is I'll put you on an antibiotic that will take a couple of days to kick in, which puts us to the weekend. If the cyst gets worse and starts leaking, you'll end up in the hospital, and I hate to see that happen. I want to discuss this with the doctor to get his opinion."

I didn't object, and off she went, returning in a few minutes with "him". I like this dermatologist, Dr. M. He was recommended by our pediatrician, and after he removed Darcy's cyst, I made an appointment to see him for my yearly check. Then, he said, much like the parade of dermatologists, I'd seen before, "if that bothers you, we can remove it." 

Now, Dr. M. poked at the cyst and pushed on it and around it.

Him: "While I don't think it's infected as of yet, it is getting there. My concern is that if I give you an antibiotic, and it gets worse we will be at the weekend, and you'll end up in the ER cursing me up and down."

Me: "So what I'm hearing is that you aren't planning on giving me your home number to call you over the weekend."

I told him his PA had said the same thing, and after a round of high fiving, they decided to lance my cyst for a small price of 300+ dollars. Dr. M. gave his PA instructions on what to do while she tried not to roll her eyes, and off he went. 

I removed my shirt, got into the paper vest, and laid face down on the table. The PA shot me several times with tiny, prickly needles to numb me, and then she went to work lancing and squeezing. She didn't get excited about the stuff oozing from the cysts as the last lancing troupe, which had then included the nurse and my mother, but she did apologize for pushing so hard on my back.

Her: "You'll probably be bruised back there, and I'm sorry for that."

I didn't tell her that I thought her pushing sort of wimpy but instead drifted into an almost slumber that she kept interrupting by asking me if I was okay. After four times of that, I told her I was fine, that she didn't need to keep asking me, and she finished the job, packing the wound with gauze. She said she'd see me in two days to remove it, sent off an antibiotic to my pharmacy, and left the nurse to wrap it.

Later that evening, I ran a fever of a 102. It lasted all night, and in the morning, the office requested I return. I called my friend SueG, and she picked drove me. I was very woozy and made her come in to retain whatever information might be given. By the time the PA came in, my fever was breaking.

She took off the bandage, poked around the wound, and told me she thought she would have "him" take a look at it.

Dr. M. appeared, and together they poked and prodded, deciding to leave it be as only blood was leaking. The packing was left inside the wound, and I was to continue on the antibiotic.

When he found out SueG was my pediatrician's brother, he plopped down next to her, and they chatted because he'd worked with her brother before choosing dermatology. Then he patted me on the leg and left.

I went home again, and I was miserable. The fever returned and lasted throughout the entire night. By morning I was running a temp of 101, and I drove myself back to the doctor's to have the packing removed. The PA was not in the office, so the same nurse removed it, poked around on it, and then told me she felt she should go get "him." 

Dr. M. came in and asked me if he could squeeze it hard. I told him to go for it, and when he did, apparently, the cyst spewed goop the packing had held back. He told me he was going to have to do the whole thing over again because the hole wasn't big or deep enough, and he left so I could get undressed and back into position.

Him: "I'm not charging you for this second procedure, by the way."

Me: "That's big of you."

Him: "You might want to be kinder until after I've poked you with the needles."

I had to go through the numbing, the squeezing, and more packing. Dr. M. kept showing me everything that was coming out, and he was more enthusiastic and vocal than the PA. 

He apologized for the deep hole he was making and for his squeezing. We both agreed the PA, while efficient, probably hadn't been strong enough in her squeezing. 

Dr. M. irrigated the wound and thought maybe I'd escape surgery as sometimes the cyst walls come out with the goop. He wrote a script for pain medication, despite declaring I was a "tough one" because he didn't want me to track him down over the weekend. I was to remove the packing on Sunday.

I left his office feeling better. The fever had broken during his procedure, and while I ran a low-grade one later that night, I was feeling myself by the next day. 

My SIL Susan was the lucky one who got to do the honors of removing the packing on Sunday, having gotten into town the day before. She gloved up, and got to work, carefully removing the gauze that was stuffed into the wound. Then, upon seeing the sight, she got very vocal.

Susan: "OH, MY GOSH! WOW. THAT IS THE BIGGEST HOLE. WOW, THAT IS DEEP! Want me to take a picture so you can see it?"

She washed the wound and then stuck in the antibiotic that he told me to shove down into the hole as it would "heal from the inside out." By the next day, it had done just that.

Susan: "OH, MY GOSH. IT'S ALREADY CLOSED. WOW. THAT'S AMAZING. THE HUMAN BODY IS AMAZING."

By the end of a week, it was scabbing, and now it is to a point where I'm only covering it at night. I can honestly say that the three days I dealt with the darn thing was the sickest I've been in a long time.

I worried the wound would turn into a Connie situation, and that probably didn't help. Thankfully, with the second procedure and the excellent nursing care I received from my SIL and my daughter, I will soon be back in the pool and the Gulf of Mexico, two places I had to forgo this summer. I see the PA on the first of August, and a decision will be made regarding the surgery of the casing. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.