This past Friday before the Labor Day weekend, Hubby had a cyst surgically removed from the back of his neck.

This past Friday before the Labor Day weekend, Hubby had a cyst surgically removed from the back of his neck.

Having an outpatient procedure that included a surgeon, a scalpel, stitches and painkillers is something that, unfortunately is old hat for me. This was a new experience for Hubby.

Initially it was discussed that maybe a dose of antibiotics would shrink the cyst and out-patient surgery would not be needed.

However, since I no longer subscribe to the cable channel that features the programs that show medical procedures I became Hubby's spokesperson and convinced him that having it out was a much better option.

After a blood pressure check that showed Hubby was a little anxious (even though he tried his best to convince the nurse he wasn't anxious about the procedure at all and tried one more time to request antibiotics in hopes it would dissappear) we were ushered to the procedure room.

Unlike the medical shows I watch on cable, I wasn't given a birds eye view of what was taking place. As the novocaine was injected and Hubby was growling and kicking his legs I stood up to get a better view. Without a camera crew I was forced to sit in the corner and listen instead.

The doctor gave Hubby instructions that if he began to feel anything at any time he should let him know. After a couple of minutes he began kicking his feet and growling. When asked if he was feeling anything he timidly said he was fine.

"You need to tell us," the nurse repeated over and over each time the leg-kicking and growling began. And each time Hubby assured everyone in the room he was fine.

Fifteen minutes later, the surgeon removed what looked like a disgusting glob of chicken fat.

"Shouldn't be much longer," I mistakenly thought to myself.

As the stitches began to go in Hubby began to kick his feet and growl a little more vigorously. After being asked if he was feeling anything and Hubby being too proud to admit pain and answering that he was fine, the doctor stopped the procedure to add a little bit more novocaine.

After 30 minutes the doctor announced he was done and the nurse attempted to sit Hubby up. The nurse asked if he was okay and he repeated that he was fine as he began crumpling off the table like a rag doll.

The nurse and I managed to lay him back down. Another 30 minutes later we were ready to leave the clinic. I ushered him to the car with one arm around his waist knowing it wouldn't do much if he decided to take a digger in the parking lot, but feeling otherwise helpless to do anything else.

As we began to make our way to the pharmacy to pick up his painkillers I wished I would have requested he be given a sedative for the drive. According to Hubby, I braked too hard, turned corners too sharp and either went way too fast or way too slow.

"Just let me drive," he snarled.

"Oh sure, why didn't you just say so!" I retorted sarcastically.

"After what I just went through I would think you could have a little bit of compassion," he retorted.

I bit my tongue–hard.

Over the course of the weekend Hubby relived his battle experience to every person we met. And the story grew with embellishments each time. By the end of the weekend you would have thought he'd had brain surgery!

In any case, I'm happy to report that despite what he says, he is doing well. The stitches are healing and contrary to popular belief, he feels much better having had it done.

When he goes back in two weeks for a check-up I offered my support and said I would go with him.

"No thanks!" he exclaimed. "I'm afraid with you there I might have a finger amputated just so you can watch another medical procedure!"

Coincidently, over the weekend I noticed we again had the cable channel that features medical procedures.