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Suspense: Not the only thing killing me.
The doc called me at work today to give me the results of the biopsy. I did not recognize the number, so I did not pick up. The message said that what I have is referred to as Atypical Nevi which is fancy doctor talk for moles. The forehead splotch is, happily, harmless as far as they know. They sprayed it with liquid nitrogen, so it's supposed to be in the process of removing itself from my face. We shall see.
The one in particular on my back, they said, is cause for concern. It is not a melanoma, but because I have it, I'm at considerably greater risk for developing melanoma. I also have fair skin, freckles, have had sun poisoning, and come from a long line of cancerous peoples. Plus, my mom has skin cancer too.
So...they want me to use SPF 30 every day on my face, neck and um...decolletage. Because my hands and arms are freckly, they said using it there would also be a good idea. It sounds expensive and high maintenance to me; but compared to what most people with cancer goes through, it's no big whoop. Really, this feels like another in a long line of vague diagnoses summed up as You seem fine for the moment, but that could change at any time. My heart is a ticking time bomb; my brain could go soft at any moment; I could also become too depressed or psychotic to function; and now my integumentary system is threatening to devour me from the outside in. But you know...don't worry about it, they say.
The only sensible thing to do here is to pick up some sunblock and go back to the business of writing disturbing fiction. Off I go, then.
The one in particular on my back, they said, is cause for concern. It is not a melanoma, but because I have it, I'm at considerably greater risk for developing melanoma. I also have fair skin, freckles, have had sun poisoning, and come from a long line of cancerous peoples. Plus, my mom has skin cancer too.
So...they want me to use SPF 30 every day on my face, neck and um...decolletage. Because my hands and arms are freckly, they said using it there would also be a good idea. It sounds expensive and high maintenance to me; but compared to what most people with cancer goes through, it's no big whoop. Really, this feels like another in a long line of vague diagnoses summed up as You seem fine for the moment, but that could change at any time. My heart is a ticking time bomb; my brain could go soft at any moment; I could also become too depressed or psychotic to function; and now my integumentary system is threatening to devour me from the outside in. But you know...don't worry about it, they say.
The only sensible thing to do here is to pick up some sunblock and go back to the business of writing disturbing fiction. Off I go, then.