Goodbye You Miserable Face Marring Clump of Bleeding, Flaking, Oozing, Cancerous Flesh.
When I was a kid I spent a lot of time outside. We had a cottage that I lived at for most of the summer, and I wasn't there I attended a summer camp. I was often in or on the water, swimming and boating, and though I likely had some sort of sunblock available, I rarely used it. If I did, it was probably washed off seconds after the application to my skin. Back then it was not mandatory to cake on SPF 100 sunscreen before even considering leaving the house. Perhaps it was due to the comparatively robust ozone layer at the time, I'm not sure. I recall my stepmother and her friends lounging around on the dock; covered in baby oil tinted with iodine to attract the sun to perfect their tan. I have fair skin, so there were many nights of my mother gingerly applying Noxzema onto my lobster red skin to soothe the discomfort of a sunburn.
Anyhow, the sun took its toll. I developed a small lump just below my left eye. I figured it would go away. After a few years of having this blemish on my cheek, I figured it was there to stay, just another feature on the landscape of my face. I don't remember when it showed up, but I've had it for at least fifteen years. This "thing on my face", as I referred to it, began to change from time to time. It could be raised, hollow, bloody in the middle, almost non-existent, itchy, or filled with goo like a large pimple, depending on it's mood. All in all, as time went on I became used to it, although every morning when I looked in the mirror, it was the first thing I would notice.
As time went on, I became more concerned with my little friend. Once, when it was in a bleeding phase, my buddy pulled me aside and mentioned that I should stop picking on that growth on my face. I became a little self conscious about it, assured him that I had not been picking at it, and decided that I should get it looked at. The snag here was the fact that I have an unreasonable fear of all things medical. My own personal psychological assessment attributes this to a visit to the hospital following a car accident as a child which involved stitches and suppositories. That's all I have to say about that.
Fortunately, I have a job that requires periodic medical assessments. At one of these consultations, as the doc was filling out the paperwork required to keep me working, I realized that I needed to suck it up and take advantage of this opportunity.
"Hey, while I have you, could you look at this thing on my face?" I asked.
"That's cancer." he replied, in the same tone he would have told me the colour he had just painted his kitchen.
"CANCER!?!" I practically screamed.
"Oh relax," he said, "It's not going to kill you."
Well, I was shocked. But not really. I had already assumed as much, but having it confirmed by a medical professional was still unnerving. We decided it should be removed. However, I switched postings shortly thereafter, and my lump dodged the bullet (or scalpel) and remained on my face. My wife hated it. I told her that it was cancer and she started demanding that I get it removed. Also that I get a vasectomy, but that is entirely a different story.
With two kids, I figured, now that my nemesis had been identified, that I should do what I needed to to become cancer free. I went to our family nurse practitioner for some blood work, and she noticed my cheek, and started to ask questions. I met with her again, and once again with another doctor, before getting a referral to a dermatologist. I had an appointment, but it was eight months down the line. Plenty of time to psych myself up for the removal of my growth.
Now, funnily enough, the eight months either flew by or dragged on, depending on the day, and the condition of my face, but the day finally arrived last month. I went to the dermatologist, who immediately confirmed that it was a basal cell carcinoma.
"It's cancer, but it's the best kind of cancer you can have!" she said.
Lucky me. It needed to be removed. I hoped we could just look after it then, but what is another month of waiting for the actual surgery, when you've had this thing on your face for fifteen years?
I need to elaborate on my fear of medicine. For years I would get the creeps just walking into a hospital. When I got my job we were required to take a Tuberculosis test. This is the simplest procedure there is. You poke your arm with this little pin and wait. That's it. If there is considerable swelling you might have TB. (I think that's how it works anyway.) So poke went the needle. And the drama began to unfold. I was sweating, nauseous, and felt exactly like I was going to die right there in that comfortable chair in the hospital. The nurse found this amusing; a six foot one, two hundred twenty pound man writhing in complete misery after a little pin prick. She got the other nurses to come in and have a laugh at my expense. They brought me cold towels, orange juice, and even some little cookies. I was so embarrassed.
This scenario has been an ongoing theme. I recall having strep throat as a kid and they took blood to make sure I didn't have Mono. There was a fridge right next to the chair that I was sitting in, and I thought about how good it would feel to put my face on the cold metal of the fridge door, because I could feel her taking the life right out of my arm. The nurse, who was nearing retirement, and not a very strong looking woman, thought that I was going down, and informed me she was not going to be able to pick me back up. After it was over, my mother, who was a nurse by trade, called me a wimp. Right when I could have used a hug. Sniff.
Just recently I needed a blood test, so I went to the lab near my house. I was determined not to cause a scene this time. I steeled myself for the inevitable, mind over matter, I want this done, so let's do it. The nurse came in; she was in the middle of her workday; and I was just another arm to stick a needle into. She put the needle in; I felt a little prick, but it was nothing. I wouldn't even say it was uncomfortable. I was staring at the wall across the room, paying no attention, trying to remember the batting order of the 1989 Cubs. She informed me that we were done. I was amazed! I had conquered my irrational fears. Victory was short lived, however, as I tried to stand, my knees buckled and I gestured towards the bed at the side of the room. She steered me over to it, and as I lay in misery, with the most intense pins and needles running through my whole body, she repeated the scene from the hospital years ago, and got the other nurses to come and laugh at the big pussy. I was completely horrified, and as soon as I could stand, got the hell out of there.
Yesterday, the big day finally arrived. I got up, showered and went to the clinic. I was mildly nervous, but it was manageable right up until the doctor came in. I figured full disclosure was the best policy, and let everyone who would listen know that I might be "that guy". We got started. I had a few spots on my back that we decided to burn off. Out came the needles to freeze the spots. Four of them. No problem. One of them actually felt good. That was bizarre. The spots came off, and they got me to flip over on my back.
Four more needles. One for a spot to be burned off of my temple, and three around my soon to be removed cancerous friend. The first two needles hurt more than the ones on my back, but by the time she was ready to put the third one in, I could feel a problem coming on. She jabbed that goddamn thing into my face and the sweat started to pour out of every single pore in my body. My stomach was doing triple back flips, and I thought it was gonna be lights out. She finished the injection and my face went numb. I was given a wet cloth to put on my forehead, and congratulated for my excellent deep breathing technique. They left the room, and I was left alone to consider what was coming next.
The door opened a few minutes later, after I had regained a little bit of composure. A man, whom I had never laid eyes on before, walked into the room.
"Now, who is this fella?" I wondered to myself.
He introduced himself, I can not tell you what his name or title was, but he was the guy who was doing it. And off we went. He grabbed a couple of tools and went to work. An inch away from my left eye. I'm thinking there was a scalpel and there must have been some sort of hook or tweezers involved as well. My eyes may as well have been welded shut, because there was no way I was looking at him, his instruments or his methods. I played with the idea of taking video via my iPhone, but figured I would wind up seeing myself slashed open and start puking all over the place.
My Cancerous Little Friend wasn't very large. It was maybe one third of an inch in diameter. I thought a quick nick with the scalpel was going to take care of this. But it was a solid half an hour of digging and cutting, followed by stitching. I had been warned that I would have a scar following the procedure, but I figured a scar is better than cancer any day. I had imagined this scar to be a cute little straight line where the spot had been, a less obtrusive replacement, a memorial of sorts for the bump that had been there for so long. At one point I figured he must be getting to the stitching, and I was itching to get out of there. I had felt no pain in the procedure up to this point, so the awful woman with the needles had done an excellent job. No pain, but if you grab the skin on your cheek and just yank it around a little, you realize that your whole face moves with it too. There was a lot of pulling, pressure, and I suppose, cutting going on, and suddenly my autonomic nervous system went into overdrive. The brain stem had had enough, and we were headed to fight or flight status. Of course my options were fight to remain conscious, or flee into blissful unconsciousness, to let these ghouls slice away at their leisure.
There was some moaning and a lot of sweating, I mean a lot of sweating. Being shirtless from the earlier procedures, I soaked through that tissue like paper they put on the chair. It was astonishing and a little disgusting when the doc pointed it out after I got up. I tried to lighten the mood by getting him to role play a torture scenario.
"You should ask me where the microfilm is; see if I'll talk" I said.
"The microfilm was in your cheek," he responded. I laughed, but decided I liked the serious doctor better. We can laugh over a couple of beers if we ever cross paths again... now pay attention to what you are doing to my face.
Anyway, he was busy stitching away, hopefully looking at his work, and not noticing my cadaver-like pallor, and the excessive amount of water pouring out of me. Suddenly the doctor I had seen originally entered and began to critique the job he was doing. She seemed happy for the most part, but there was talk of a dog ear, and then they had to visualize that the flesh he was "tenting" (the flesh of my face, mind you) was some sort of triangle.
"What the fuck are they talking about?" I thought, moaning like someone from the Walking Dead.
He must have thought the same, because he was apparently not understanding her instructions. She swooped in with some metal, hooked up some flesh and made the triangle, and took care of business. This part of the procedure was the only time since my nemesis with the needles had left the room that I had felt pain.
"Hey! I feel that." I interrupted the geometry lesson.
"Oh, that's OK, we are just at the edge of your freezing," she told me reassuringly.
She watched for a moment as he finished up, and then left the room. He put another stitch or two in, then sprayed some stuff on my wound, told me we were done, and wished me luck as he left the room. I sat up, feeling just a little lightheaded, but not too bad, and dared to peek in the nearby mirror. When I came in that day, I had looked in the same mirror to say goodbye to that little monster who, at that moment looked the best he had in years. In his place was a two inch gash, freshly stitched that looked fiery and angry.
Holy Shit!
It is far bigger than I had expected. But it isn't cancer.
Last night as I played with my daughter, she managed to smash me square in the face, right where the cancer used to be. That wasn't fun, but the rest of the evening was manageable. I had a headache and there is still a bit of swelling, but I haven't even taken Tylenol for the pain today. I just feel about the same as if I had gotten mouthy at the bar last night, and someone had found me less humourous than I thought I was being. At least I can eat an apple, because my jaw isn't sore.
So that is the end of my little friend. I'll have the scar to remember him by. I wonder if the procedure would have been as simple as the other spots on my back and temple, had I gotten off of my ass and gotten it checked out sooner. I will definitely take the burning off over the excision any day. I told all of this to my Mom this afternoon. She is well aware of my Tony Soprano like panic attacks at the doctor, and chuckled as I relayed to her my story. I also told her that in the middle of the procedure, I imagined her surgery in the spring, where she had elected to be awake for her hip replacement, and opted for an epidural instead of a general anesthetic. I was near death with a little cut on my face, and she had listened to her iPod while someone hammered and sawed away at her hip. She had inspired me to suck it up and get through the procedure. Right before we hung up she gave me my virtual hug.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
I loved that. I realized that I had made the right decision, and that I wouldn't be the only one who was happy to see the little cancerous bastard gone. My advice to anyone in a similar situation is to get those spots and moles checked out early. The burning off procedure was like a Hawaiian sunset compared to the excision. I should have a little service for my departed friend, he was after all a part of me for a long time. No, I don't think so. Good riddance.
Anyhow, the sun took its toll. I developed a small lump just below my left eye. I figured it would go away. After a few years of having this blemish on my cheek, I figured it was there to stay, just another feature on the landscape of my face. I don't remember when it showed up, but I've had it for at least fifteen years. This "thing on my face", as I referred to it, began to change from time to time. It could be raised, hollow, bloody in the middle, almost non-existent, itchy, or filled with goo like a large pimple, depending on it's mood. All in all, as time went on I became used to it, although every morning when I looked in the mirror, it was the first thing I would notice.
As time went on, I became more concerned with my little friend. Once, when it was in a bleeding phase, my buddy pulled me aside and mentioned that I should stop picking on that growth on my face. I became a little self conscious about it, assured him that I had not been picking at it, and decided that I should get it looked at. The snag here was the fact that I have an unreasonable fear of all things medical. My own personal psychological assessment attributes this to a visit to the hospital following a car accident as a child which involved stitches and suppositories. That's all I have to say about that.
Fortunately, I have a job that requires periodic medical assessments. At one of these consultations, as the doc was filling out the paperwork required to keep me working, I realized that I needed to suck it up and take advantage of this opportunity.
"Hey, while I have you, could you look at this thing on my face?" I asked.
"That's cancer." he replied, in the same tone he would have told me the colour he had just painted his kitchen.
"CANCER!?!" I practically screamed.
"Oh relax," he said, "It's not going to kill you."
Well, I was shocked. But not really. I had already assumed as much, but having it confirmed by a medical professional was still unnerving. We decided it should be removed. However, I switched postings shortly thereafter, and my lump dodged the bullet (or scalpel) and remained on my face. My wife hated it. I told her that it was cancer and she started demanding that I get it removed. Also that I get a vasectomy, but that is entirely a different story.
With two kids, I figured, now that my nemesis had been identified, that I should do what I needed to to become cancer free. I went to our family nurse practitioner for some blood work, and she noticed my cheek, and started to ask questions. I met with her again, and once again with another doctor, before getting a referral to a dermatologist. I had an appointment, but it was eight months down the line. Plenty of time to psych myself up for the removal of my growth.
Now, funnily enough, the eight months either flew by or dragged on, depending on the day, and the condition of my face, but the day finally arrived last month. I went to the dermatologist, who immediately confirmed that it was a basal cell carcinoma.
"It's cancer, but it's the best kind of cancer you can have!" she said.
Lucky me. It needed to be removed. I hoped we could just look after it then, but what is another month of waiting for the actual surgery, when you've had this thing on your face for fifteen years?
I need to elaborate on my fear of medicine. For years I would get the creeps just walking into a hospital. When I got my job we were required to take a Tuberculosis test. This is the simplest procedure there is. You poke your arm with this little pin and wait. That's it. If there is considerable swelling you might have TB. (I think that's how it works anyway.) So poke went the needle. And the drama began to unfold. I was sweating, nauseous, and felt exactly like I was going to die right there in that comfortable chair in the hospital. The nurse found this amusing; a six foot one, two hundred twenty pound man writhing in complete misery after a little pin prick. She got the other nurses to come in and have a laugh at my expense. They brought me cold towels, orange juice, and even some little cookies. I was so embarrassed.
This scenario has been an ongoing theme. I recall having strep throat as a kid and they took blood to make sure I didn't have Mono. There was a fridge right next to the chair that I was sitting in, and I thought about how good it would feel to put my face on the cold metal of the fridge door, because I could feel her taking the life right out of my arm. The nurse, who was nearing retirement, and not a very strong looking woman, thought that I was going down, and informed me she was not going to be able to pick me back up. After it was over, my mother, who was a nurse by trade, called me a wimp. Right when I could have used a hug. Sniff.
Just recently I needed a blood test, so I went to the lab near my house. I was determined not to cause a scene this time. I steeled myself for the inevitable, mind over matter, I want this done, so let's do it. The nurse came in; she was in the middle of her workday; and I was just another arm to stick a needle into. She put the needle in; I felt a little prick, but it was nothing. I wouldn't even say it was uncomfortable. I was staring at the wall across the room, paying no attention, trying to remember the batting order of the 1989 Cubs. She informed me that we were done. I was amazed! I had conquered my irrational fears. Victory was short lived, however, as I tried to stand, my knees buckled and I gestured towards the bed at the side of the room. She steered me over to it, and as I lay in misery, with the most intense pins and needles running through my whole body, she repeated the scene from the hospital years ago, and got the other nurses to come and laugh at the big pussy. I was completely horrified, and as soon as I could stand, got the hell out of there.
Yesterday, the big day finally arrived. I got up, showered and went to the clinic. I was mildly nervous, but it was manageable right up until the doctor came in. I figured full disclosure was the best policy, and let everyone who would listen know that I might be "that guy". We got started. I had a few spots on my back that we decided to burn off. Out came the needles to freeze the spots. Four of them. No problem. One of them actually felt good. That was bizarre. The spots came off, and they got me to flip over on my back.
Four more needles. One for a spot to be burned off of my temple, and three around my soon to be removed cancerous friend. The first two needles hurt more than the ones on my back, but by the time she was ready to put the third one in, I could feel a problem coming on. She jabbed that goddamn thing into my face and the sweat started to pour out of every single pore in my body. My stomach was doing triple back flips, and I thought it was gonna be lights out. She finished the injection and my face went numb. I was given a wet cloth to put on my forehead, and congratulated for my excellent deep breathing technique. They left the room, and I was left alone to consider what was coming next.
The door opened a few minutes later, after I had regained a little bit of composure. A man, whom I had never laid eyes on before, walked into the room.
"Now, who is this fella?" I wondered to myself.
He introduced himself, I can not tell you what his name or title was, but he was the guy who was doing it. And off we went. He grabbed a couple of tools and went to work. An inch away from my left eye. I'm thinking there was a scalpel and there must have been some sort of hook or tweezers involved as well. My eyes may as well have been welded shut, because there was no way I was looking at him, his instruments or his methods. I played with the idea of taking video via my iPhone, but figured I would wind up seeing myself slashed open and start puking all over the place.
My Cancerous Little Friend wasn't very large. It was maybe one third of an inch in diameter. I thought a quick nick with the scalpel was going to take care of this. But it was a solid half an hour of digging and cutting, followed by stitching. I had been warned that I would have a scar following the procedure, but I figured a scar is better than cancer any day. I had imagined this scar to be a cute little straight line where the spot had been, a less obtrusive replacement, a memorial of sorts for the bump that had been there for so long. At one point I figured he must be getting to the stitching, and I was itching to get out of there. I had felt no pain in the procedure up to this point, so the awful woman with the needles had done an excellent job. No pain, but if you grab the skin on your cheek and just yank it around a little, you realize that your whole face moves with it too. There was a lot of pulling, pressure, and I suppose, cutting going on, and suddenly my autonomic nervous system went into overdrive. The brain stem had had enough, and we were headed to fight or flight status. Of course my options were fight to remain conscious, or flee into blissful unconsciousness, to let these ghouls slice away at their leisure.
There was some moaning and a lot of sweating, I mean a lot of sweating. Being shirtless from the earlier procedures, I soaked through that tissue like paper they put on the chair. It was astonishing and a little disgusting when the doc pointed it out after I got up. I tried to lighten the mood by getting him to role play a torture scenario.
"You should ask me where the microfilm is; see if I'll talk" I said.
"The microfilm was in your cheek," he responded. I laughed, but decided I liked the serious doctor better. We can laugh over a couple of beers if we ever cross paths again... now pay attention to what you are doing to my face.
Anyway, he was busy stitching away, hopefully looking at his work, and not noticing my cadaver-like pallor, and the excessive amount of water pouring out of me. Suddenly the doctor I had seen originally entered and began to critique the job he was doing. She seemed happy for the most part, but there was talk of a dog ear, and then they had to visualize that the flesh he was "tenting" (the flesh of my face, mind you) was some sort of triangle.
"What the fuck are they talking about?" I thought, moaning like someone from the Walking Dead.
He must have thought the same, because he was apparently not understanding her instructions. She swooped in with some metal, hooked up some flesh and made the triangle, and took care of business. This part of the procedure was the only time since my nemesis with the needles had left the room that I had felt pain.
"Hey! I feel that." I interrupted the geometry lesson.
"Oh, that's OK, we are just at the edge of your freezing," she told me reassuringly.
She watched for a moment as he finished up, and then left the room. He put another stitch or two in, then sprayed some stuff on my wound, told me we were done, and wished me luck as he left the room. I sat up, feeling just a little lightheaded, but not too bad, and dared to peek in the nearby mirror. When I came in that day, I had looked in the same mirror to say goodbye to that little monster who, at that moment looked the best he had in years. In his place was a two inch gash, freshly stitched that looked fiery and angry.
Holy Shit!
It is far bigger than I had expected. But it isn't cancer.
Last night as I played with my daughter, she managed to smash me square in the face, right where the cancer used to be. That wasn't fun, but the rest of the evening was manageable. I had a headache and there is still a bit of swelling, but I haven't even taken Tylenol for the pain today. I just feel about the same as if I had gotten mouthy at the bar last night, and someone had found me less humourous than I thought I was being. At least I can eat an apple, because my jaw isn't sore.
So that is the end of my little friend. I'll have the scar to remember him by. I wonder if the procedure would have been as simple as the other spots on my back and temple, had I gotten off of my ass and gotten it checked out sooner. I will definitely take the burning off over the excision any day. I told all of this to my Mom this afternoon. She is well aware of my Tony Soprano like panic attacks at the doctor, and chuckled as I relayed to her my story. I also told her that in the middle of the procedure, I imagined her surgery in the spring, where she had elected to be awake for her hip replacement, and opted for an epidural instead of a general anesthetic. I was near death with a little cut on my face, and she had listened to her iPod while someone hammered and sawed away at her hip. She had inspired me to suck it up and get through the procedure. Right before we hung up she gave me my virtual hug.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
I loved that. I realized that I had made the right decision, and that I wouldn't be the only one who was happy to see the little cancerous bastard gone. My advice to anyone in a similar situation is to get those spots and moles checked out early. The burning off procedure was like a Hawaiian sunset compared to the excision. I should have a little service for my departed friend, he was after all a part of me for a long time. No, I don't think so. Good riddance.
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