Stitches, Part 2

I don’t want to say I’m a big baby about pain, because I don’t like talking about people—especially when the “people” in question is me. So, let’s say instead that I’m slightly pain averse. Given this, I find it remarkable that now, some five days after having a patch of skin removed from my forearm and having the remaining skin stitched back together, I have experienced no pain or discomfort.

This is especially extraordinary given how angry the skin around the stitches appears. We are, fortunately, not talking about angry on the level of my neighbor that time I shattered the windshield on his Jeep with a marble I shot up into the air with my slingshot—more like angry on the level of my father when he couldn’t find a screwdriver because I had used it and not put it back where he kept it.

In another week, Desiree is going to remove the stitches. She might be a bit more excited about this than she should be, but I’m game. I am sharing a photograph of my stitches alongside a can of Cold Smoke beer, my standard scale of reference for size. I plan on having a sip of Cold Smoke on the day the stitches are removed.

Cheers!

My Stitches

—Mitchell Hegman

The Moving Van

Had someone chanced to drive by my house late yesterday afternoon, they might have been surprised to spot a U-Haul moving van in my front drive. Frankly, I was as surprised as anyone else to see a moving van out there. By the time I noticed it, the back door was rolled up, and I could see a young man—a UPS deliveryman—tumbling packages around inside.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself.

A few moments later, I leaned out the front door, snapped a photo with my smartphone, and then trotted out to the back of the truck.

“You have a funny-looking UPS van,” I called out. “Is this the latest generation of UPS rigs?”

“I guess so,” the young man responded.

“Are you guys short on vans as the holiday season approaches?”

The young man nodded. “I think there are a couple of trucks like this running routes today.”

“Well, it’s unique. We can say that much.”

Eventually, the deliveryman kicked two packages free from the rest and presented them to me. I thanked him and lugged the packages inside my house. The U-Haul van soon crawled away across the prairie.

At one time, I drove to stores to buy stuff. Now, I do this.

UPS Delivery

—Mitchell Hegman

A Trash Fatality

Living out in the country, I have subscribed to a bi-weekly trash pickup service. The service is a bit weird. I’m required to drag my two bins nearly 100 yards out onto the prairie where two roads converge. I do this late on a Tuesday evening because the disposal truck arrives between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m. Wednesday morning.

The problem is, the disposal truck is a monster of sorts. For one thing, it rumbles terribly coming and going in the predawn darkness. It also has way too many lights: amber lights, glaring white lights, flashing lights.

And it beeps.

The biggest issue, however, is the robotic arm the truck extends to grab and empty my bins. The arm does not have a soft touch. Sometimes, the arm goes rogue and abuses my bins. I regularly find them lying on their sides. Every so often, the arm squeezes the bins improperly and damages them.

Yesterday morning, when I strutted out to the prairie to retrieve my empty bins, I found only half of one bin. Fatal damage on this run.

My Trash Bins Back at the House

—Mitchell Hegman

Morning Report, December 4, 2024

I woke quite early this morning, wandered into the darkened sunroom, and stood amidst the houseplants there. The snake plants seemed like dusky fingers reaching up toward the sky—a sky still spattered with stars. Almost directly above me, Orion posed in his steady, invariable stance. As a child, I always sought out Orion in the night sky and felt a certain comfort in knowing he was there.

After gazing up at the stars through the curved glass for a sufficient time, I drifted to the woodstove and touched off a fire to push the chill from the house. I watched as the flames grasped and gradually dismantled the splits and ends I had stacked in the firebox last night as the sunset painted the sky using a palette of orange and red. Appropriate, I mused, that the same palette used to color sunsets is used to color fires. I thought also about Desiree, still sleeping in her castle of pillows.

It’s interesting: one of the prominent features Desiree envisioned about life in America was the presence of a fireplace or woodstove in the house—something unnecessary in island life. This morning, she will wake to find the flames I touched off painting the fire she always imagined as quintessentially American.

This Morning’s Fire

Last Night’s Sunset

—Mitchell Hegman

Stitches

Though I've reached an age where, if I were a car, I’d have been considered an antique twenty years ago, I had never needed a single stitch on my body—until yesterday. That changed when my dermatologist removed a patch of skin exhibiting squamous cell carcinoma from my forearm and then stitched me back together.

My squamous cell carcinoma (or "squeamish cell," as I like to call it) began quietly—first as a rough patch of skin and later as a persistent sore that refused to heal. This type of cancer thrives on UV damage caused by exposure to the harsh sun. According to my doctor, nearly 40 percent of fair-skinned individuals are affected by this form of cancer at some point.

Though seemingly harmless at first, squamous cell carcinoma can grow aggressively, spread, or even metastasize. It’s nothing to trifle with.

Today, I stand with my first-ever stitches stretching three inches across my forearm. Weirdly enough, 16 hours after the procedure, I have experienced zero pain.

The Bandage Covering My Stitches

Outline of the Skin to be Removed

—Mitchell Hegman

Altered Gravity

If I could alter any of the immutable laws that presently guide this universe, the first thing I might change is the law of gravity. In my revised universe, gravity would no longer fully apply to the following: children between the ages of five and ten, anvils (except in cartoons), stones beyond their third skip across any body of water, kittens, and Christmas decorations.

—Mitchell Hegman

Choosing the Truth

I represent the Google generation. In the Google generation, you entered your query—whatever it may have been—and a search engine provided you with a list of links related to your question, some of which led to false information.

After a little study, you could choose an answer.

The next generation is being nurtured by Artificial Intelligence. With AI, a query to the mysterious blue tubes—thanks to bots, easily accessible memes, and manipulated sources—usually delivers a single, sometimes false, answer.

Those controlling the information inputs control the outputs.

New question: Are we losing the ability to choose the truth?

—Mitchell Hegman