Many years ago, when he was a much younger man, my husband spent a summer working in an oil field here in Oklahoma. Those of you who have actually met Wade will find that appropriately hysterical, but it gets better: Because he was a College Boy and not a roughneck, his job apparently consisted primarily of throwing rocks at a herd of cows to keep them from drinking out of a contaminated pond. And doing some painting, too, I guess.

(Also he lived, for a week, in a motor home, but then he and his friend decided that they weren’t cut out for motor home living and relocated to a Motel 6. College Boys. Sheesh.)

Wade spent most of that summer covered in oil; he would bathe in turpentine to get it off his skin. And then go out in the sun, where he was burned to a blistered crisp for twelve consecutive weeks.

You can guess where this is going, can’t you?

Wade goes regularly to the dermatologist, just to have things checked out. He’s had a bunch of moles removed over the last fifteen years. Maybe ten years ago, he had two spots removed, one on his abdomen and one on his back; both required stitches (seven in one incision, five in the other, I think). He still likes to show the kids the scars and tell them that they are from where he was run through in a sword fight. The kids are pretty sure he’s kidding.

A couple of weeks ago, he went in for a regularly scheduled Mole Check and the dermatologist saw a spot right between Wade’s shoulder blades that he didn’t really like, so he sliced it off. Just like that! And then I had to attend to the band aid for a week. Eew.

Of course — OF COURSE! — that was not the end of it. The pathologist didn’t like what he saw (avoiding the joke about how he was looking at a big flap of my husband’s skin and EEEW) and the dermatologist decided that he needed to have another procedure.

Aside: The dermatologist called and left Wade the NICEST message ever, about how he shouldn’t worry and the procedure would be really simple but he might not want to plan to play golf or go to the batting cages for a few days afterward, two things Wade never done in his ENTIRE LIFE. I thought it was sweet, but Wade thinks I have a crush on our dermatologist (which I just might because he is kind of cute, and thanks to him my skin has never looked better).

Wade had his procedure today; he called me on his way back to the office and when I said, “How did it go?” he said, “Well, the surgery took two hours, and I have twenty stitches in my back — five subcutaneous, and fifteen more at the surface.”

WHOA.

The cute dermatologist sent him on his way with instructions for cleaning the incision (which apparently I will be doing EEW) and a prescription for Vicodin. When I complained that no one ever sends me home with Vicodin, Wade said, “I have TWENTY STITCHES IN MY BACK.”

“I gave birth to your CHILDREN and came home with ibuprofen,” I reminded him.

And he said, “TWENTY STITCHES.”

Eh, he’s got a point.