Saturday, November 25, 2006
Mom Was Right
It wasn't enough to be born with fair Irish skin. During my foolish--make that my really stupid teens, I added baby oil and an occasional nap under a 70's era tanning light. Not that I ever tanned, of course. Instead, I pre-paid my dues for the skin cancer club with a few blistering sunburns and joined the waiting list.
Now older and wiser, I'm nearly hypochondriacal about changes to my skin. In September, when a small, pink blemish near my right temple didn't clear up as it should have, I speed-dialed my dermatologist.
"How long has this been there?" she asked.
"A couple of weeks."
"Is that all?" (Evidently, I am a little hypochondriacal....) She pulled out the bright lights and magnifying glass for a closer look.
"Yeah, and I was due for my regular check-up anyway, so I figured this was a good reason for an appointment.
And it was. A biopsy and a week later, I had my first case of skin cancer. If you get to choose, basal cell carcinoma is the cancer you want. Slow growing. Never metastisizes. Has polite table manners, too. Given what people I love have endured in the name of cancer, I hardly deserve to appropriate the term. But still, mine needed to go. I was referred to a plastic surgeon.
Using a lifetime of well-honed avoidance techniques, I gave little thought to what an excision might entail. In my four and a half second analysis, I'd concluded the procedure would be a dressy version of the biopsy--a little numbing here, a little scraping there, a tiny band-aid, perhaps in a designer color, and I'd be on my way. I'd even demoted the whole business from "surgery" to "procedure."
Then, too, Max has been sick. Really, really sick. Pink eye, followed by an ear infection, which led to an allergic reaction to antibiotics, leaving him more vulnerable to (what is probably) pneumonia. Yet he has managed to face doctors and needles and hospitals and X-ray machines and a counterful of medicines with quiet courage. So who was I to whine about a little out-patient procedure?
The first thing the nurse did when she came to prep me for surgery was to ground me. GROUND ME! There are some things I don't want to know, and I have elected thus far not to google this, but as best I can tell, the doctor wanted to make sure I wouldn't be electrocuted if there was any static electricity in the room when it came time to cauterized my head.
This was my first clue that I was not having another biopsy.
When you're (blissfully) numb, and when you close your eyes like the See No Evil monkey to avoid the glint of needle or scalpel, what takes over is your ears. I will not describe the noises involved in the surgery because I don't want to imagine how those sounds related to my own flesh. But I do have more sympathy for people who opt for a little pre-op valium.
My second clue that this was not another biopsy was when the nurse returned from Pathology ("clean margins"--what beautiful words) and declared, "Now it's time to repair you."
To this point, I hadn't envisioned myself in need of restoration. But I was. First the doctor elongated the divot so that it resembled the shape of an eye and the "lids" could be pulled closed. And then he began to stitch, clip, stitch, clip, stitch, clip...until I lost count. As wounds go, mine is very tidy--more invisible zipper than railroad tracks. It's still a little tender, but it's done. And for that, I am very thankful.
P.S. The moral of this story? Mom was right. And I am the new posterchild for sunscreen.
Now older and wiser, I'm nearly hypochondriacal about changes to my skin. In September, when a small, pink blemish near my right temple didn't clear up as it should have, I speed-dialed my dermatologist.
"How long has this been there?" she asked.
"A couple of weeks."
"Is that all?" (Evidently, I am a little hypochondriacal....) She pulled out the bright lights and magnifying glass for a closer look.
"Yeah, and I was due for my regular check-up anyway, so I figured this was a good reason for an appointment.
And it was. A biopsy and a week later, I had my first case of skin cancer. If you get to choose, basal cell carcinoma is the cancer you want. Slow growing. Never metastisizes. Has polite table manners, too. Given what people I love have endured in the name of cancer, I hardly deserve to appropriate the term. But still, mine needed to go. I was referred to a plastic surgeon.
Using a lifetime of well-honed avoidance techniques, I gave little thought to what an excision might entail. In my four and a half second analysis, I'd concluded the procedure would be a dressy version of the biopsy--a little numbing here, a little scraping there, a tiny band-aid, perhaps in a designer color, and I'd be on my way. I'd even demoted the whole business from "surgery" to "procedure."
Then, too, Max has been sick. Really, really sick. Pink eye, followed by an ear infection, which led to an allergic reaction to antibiotics, leaving him more vulnerable to (what is probably) pneumonia. Yet he has managed to face doctors and needles and hospitals and X-ray machines and a counterful of medicines with quiet courage. So who was I to whine about a little out-patient procedure?
The first thing the nurse did when she came to prep me for surgery was to ground me. GROUND ME! There are some things I don't want to know, and I have elected thus far not to google this, but as best I can tell, the doctor wanted to make sure I wouldn't be electrocuted if there was any static electricity in the room when it came time to cauterized my head.
This was my first clue that I was not having another biopsy.
When you're (blissfully) numb, and when you close your eyes like the See No Evil monkey to avoid the glint of needle or scalpel, what takes over is your ears. I will not describe the noises involved in the surgery because I don't want to imagine how those sounds related to my own flesh. But I do have more sympathy for people who opt for a little pre-op valium.
My second clue that this was not another biopsy was when the nurse returned from Pathology ("clean margins"--what beautiful words) and declared, "Now it's time to repair you."
To this point, I hadn't envisioned myself in need of restoration. But I was. First the doctor elongated the divot so that it resembled the shape of an eye and the "lids" could be pulled closed. And then he began to stitch, clip, stitch, clip, stitch, clip...until I lost count. As wounds go, mine is very tidy--more invisible zipper than railroad tracks. It's still a little tender, but it's done. And for that, I am very thankful.
P.S. The moral of this story? Mom was right. And I am the new posterchild for sunscreen.
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