You may recall a post I wrote last month about skin cancer and learning that I have been growing said cancer on my forehead: Skin Cancer, Too? Really?!
Well, despite my attempts to delay the surgery I need to (hopefully) eliminate this cancer, the day of this unpleasant event is now upon me.
In a few short hours I will be headed to the hospital for chemosurgery / Mohs micrographic surgery with our area’s only chemosurgeon.
And I am biting my nails. They’ve told me that I should plan to be there for anywhere from half the day to the entire day. They won’t know how long until the surgery is underway and they can see how extensive the cancer is — and what will be required to close the area up.
Apparently I am supposed to be comforted by the fact that my surgeon is excellent at doing reconstruction and skin grafts. Let me assure you that I am not. I would rather have not known that he may need to exercise these talents with me.
I don’t know why I am so concerned about this surgery. I’ve had more than my fair share of surgeries and procedures. And most of them were far more invasive than what I expect this one to be. I’ve been cut into so many times that if I lifted my shirt, you might mistake me for the bride of Frankenstein.
So this shouldn’t be a big deal in comparison, right? (Well, that’s what I’m telling myself at least.)
And it’s for a good cause. I am actively growing cancer on my head — I can see it growing from week to week — so I should want to get rid of it.
But I am still scared.
Maybe it’s because I’m a bleeder? And I’m on a blood-thinning regimen. Just the biopsies required to get this diagnosis were a clear sign that bleeding will be an issue for me.
Maybe it’s because they’ll have a scalpel touching my head and I don’t yet know how deep they’ll have to cut?
Maybe it’s because I’ll be awake and I’d much rather be asleep?
Or maybe it’s just because I am so tired of cancer and side effects and surgeries and procedures and my body is weathered and worn out. And I just want to feel like a regular thirty-something-year-old with regular thirty-something-year-old problems.
Or maybe it’s just because no one likes surgery — big or small — and I am only human. (Of course if I lift my shirt, you may think otherwise!)