When High School started there were two Middle Schools that converged together. Nashwaaksis Middle School (NMS) was of course one of them and the other was Devon Middle School (DMS). NMS students were a little weary about joining forces with the "Devon Dirts" because many of them were seen as being unpredictable or dangerous. There were many occasions where various people would spread the word that Devon was coming to Nashwaaksis to take part in some bloody hand to hand combat. These battles never took place. Whispers and gossip of the DMS student bodies violent tendencies was a massive exaggeration of the truth. They were just a mixture of humans doing their best to fit in and move forward with their lives. I never really expected to make friends with any of them due to the outrageous rumors of their deviousness, but of course when the mystical nature of their malevolent underpinnings was debunked, several of them started to become my friends. Shawn was one of the first friends I made from Devon, he was a silly, comedic character who fit into my circle flawlessly.
The summer break after Grade Nine was fast approaching. I'd always come home from sports practice throw my t-shirt into the laundry bin, grab some clean clothes and head upstairs to the old shower. While swiftly moving my way into the bathroom my Mom stopped me and started to point at the constellation of moles on my back. She said "this mole in particular looks discolored to me". I humored her and agreed to see the doctor the following week. My family Doctor was Dr. Bran and she asked me to take my shirt off when I arrived at her office. "YES MAAM", she was a beauty of a lady, and had a sense of kindness and gentleness about her. She pointed to five spots that ran down my back and said that they needed to be removed and that the surgery would take place in a couple of weeks. Dr. Bran herself would be the operating physician.
Day after day melted by, until the day of the surgery arrived. I was told to lay down flat on my stomach and she prepared the needles that would freeze the better part of my back. "This will hurt a bit" she said. Dr. Bran injected five needles into my skin. I prepared for the insertion by attempting to compare the feeling with what it felt like to have your gums frozen by the dentist. Yeah.... that was not the case. It was quite painful; there was a strange feeling after the needle went into my back, almost like I could feel the liquid spreading out under my skin in the form of a rippling stabbing sensation. The operation went smoothly, she used black stitches that weren't the dissolvable kind. Later, I'd find out that the dissolvable stitches were a lot more delightful.
The first thing I found out after the surgery is that I toss and turn like a beached salmon while trying to fall asleep. My stitches were covered in polysporin, and it was advised that I avoid lying on my back. While I'm most certainly a belly sleeper, I deeply missed being able to lie on my back; and the itchiness, dear mother of a badly beaten mosquito it itched. With my entire being I wanted to itch the fuck out of those cuts, but had to remain like a monk, resisting the urge to do what is not favorable to oneself. When it came time for the doctor to remove the stitches I was filled with glee, "oh yippee" (insert childlike tone of voice and flamboyant jump) when she pulled them out it was so satisfying. The perpetual itch of insanity was about to be eradicated. Exemption from scratching... I like it a lot.
It was a Saturday, and my friend Shawn from big bad Devon Middle School was over for a play date. We were probably doing something outlandish when my Mom interrupted our conversation. "Ben, I think it's time for Shawn to go home". My parents never said anything like that, it was bizarre, so I responded in kind and told Shawn that he'd have to leave. Then my parents asked me to come into the living room for a "family meeting".
At this point I was pretty much an unreal human being. Generally, I didn't cause much of a negative stir around the household. In Grade Six I did draw a bunch of weird sexual pictures with a classmate of mine and got three days of in-school detention; that was really the extent of my unruly behavior, and because of that reality the family meeting idea was confusing, but I complied.
My feet moved from the hard wood floor of our upstairs hallway onto the soft pink carpet of our living room, and down on the couch I sat. My Dad was on the left and my Mom was on the right; both were sitting across from me. Then they proceeded to tell me, with much concern and difficulty that I had Malignant Melanoma on the mole that was removed from my back. The mole that had melanoma was on the upper part of my back by my left shoulder. The words that my parents uttered were slow and strained. You could tell it caused them a deep amount of agony to have to transmit this information. My Dad started to cry, and I just sat there, dumbfounded and puzzled about what would come next; would I survive? More information began to spew from their lips; the melanoma was thin, which meant that they caught it early. The next move was that I'd have to have a significant amount of skin removed from around the area where the mole was extracted.
The operating Doctor was a plastic surgeon named Dr. Harmony, the name instilled a sense of confidence and at the very least, provided some lame comedic relief. I cringed as he inserted the needles into my flesh. We waited a while, talking about some mumbo jumbo, mainly things that I was involved in until the freezing took effect.
It was strange feeling the tiny blade running along the numbness of my pale white skin. Dr. Harmony was great at diverting my attention as he continued with the surgery. The process of Dr. Harmony running the stitches in and around the wound and then the sensation of them being quickly and meticulously tied together is a kooky sensation. I was looking forward to the stitches dissolving on their own in order to avoid the legend of the "black stitch itchiness".
Immediately after surgery my Mom and Dad drove me out to Minto, New Brunswick for my Grandmother's funeral. She had been battling brain cancer for around a year prior to her death and lost the battle a few days before my surgery.
Dad was dealing with a lot. The death of his Mother, and the fragility of his only son.. While juggling with thoughts of my fathers difficulties it became fairly evident that the pain medication The Doctor issued was producing a bit of a high. The high felt like a fogginess and a floaty kind of lightness, it wasn't coupled with paranoia, but more of a fabricated euphoria of sorts.
Finally, the funeral got started. My Dad, Mother and Sister were seated a couple of pews back from the front. It all seemed like a quick-cut film set on fast forward. The only thing I can truly recall during the service was my father's hopeless grieving sobs that cut through the air with a cruel intensity.
The odd part about this experience took place after the service was over, where my first cousin and I ran around the church while I was riding on a synthetic manic euphoria. I was being foolish, and inappropriately silly. It wasn't until the next day that I realized how odd my behavior had been. Luckily, most of it was behind the stage curtain of the church, and away from the general view of the attendees. The days following the funeral helped to heal the stitched-up wound on my back, they also allowed me to forgive myself for the transgressions exhibited during the celebration of my Grandmothers life.