I'm starting my Sunday dreads even earlier today. Because I have yet another skin cancer surgical procedure tomorrow. This one is cutting, scraping, and burning, so probably no stitches. Yay?
Part of me wants to postpone it because I'm tired of being wounded and in pain, with my body looking mangled. And part of me just wants to get all of this shit over with. I'll see how courageous I feel tomorrow.
I had the first, more serious surgery 10 days ago. The cancer itself (or defect as the surgeon called it) was itty bitty, a little larger than a freckle. I was mentally prepared for another facial scar, albeit a small one. They showed me a mirror of what they had inked on my face of tissue to remove. It was pencil eraser sized. I was still feeling okay,
Fast forward to numerous lidocaine shots later, two hours to wait to hear that they excised all of the cancer and wouldn't need to cut additional tissue, and then many, many more lidocaine shots to stitch me up. And I went home with a much larger scar than anticipated. Nine stitches.
I was crying and having all kinds of a pity party. And again trying to come to terms that this was my new reality. "Stop crying over spilt milk, Wendy."
Spoiler: I always cried when I spilled my milk as a kid, no matter how many times my father yelled at me to stop doing both. Apparently, I still do.
I went in for suture removal a couple days ago and got up my courage to ask the surgeon why he cut so much when he clearly marked only a little. This mofo was kinda awesome. Not only didn't he throw his god-complex in my face to say "because it's your health" or some trite bullshit like that, but he pulled up photos to show me, drew diagrams on paper, and explained geometrical angles of best successes. I felt a little better as I left there.
Also, wounds always look better when the dark stitches are gone. Less Frankenstein-esque.
That night, I was relaxing and celebrating and about to fall asleep when I yawned and popped open the wound.
^e(&^(*@**@#SKH(*W&*&TW@^*W)(&)(!!!!
I called the emergency number for his office and had already made up my mind that I wasn't going to the ER that night. I taped up the hole in my face and monitored it for bleeding. It could wait until the morning. He dutifully called back and told me to come in the morning.
I took a Xanax and went to sleep, trying not to think how hideous this would end up.
First thing in the morning, I canceled my massage appointment and instead went for more stitches. That's self-care, right??
Eighteen motherfucking stitches later, I came home hurting and crying.
He still promised me that this scar would fade to nothing because of his geometrical angles.
At this point, I just want it to heal so I can eat properly again. I miss that.
