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Tomorrow I will have the tip of my nose (or a large portion thereof) cut off. Not to spite my face (yes, I've heard that so many times in the last month!) but because of skin cancer; basal cell carcinoma, thank goodness.
This thing started last summer as a crusty spot on the end of my nose, very tiny, like an errant dandruff flake that fell from my head. I brushed it off and thought no more about it. Until the next one, which was more difficult to brush away. When it grew slightly larger and turned bright pink, I thought it was perhaps a mosquito bite. When I finally realized this just might be cancer, the pink bump had become a slight depression surrounded by a raised rim. This was in September.
My PCP (primary care provider) at the VA clinic confirmed my suspicion and began the process of getting a referral to a civilian dermatologist. This was in late September. The earliest appointment I could find in two counties was for February. A biopsy ruled out squamous cell carcinoma (thank you, Universe!) and surgery was scheduled for a month later.
I was doing well, emotionally, with this idea of having my nose lopped off and the Mohs procedure which will cause my face to be sliced in a wonky zig-zag fashion to cut a circle of skin to cover the hole at the end of my nose, then stitch all that back together again...like Humpty Dumpty, maybe.
But as the hour draws nearer, I feel more like the Cowardly Lion than Pollyanna. Oh, I'll be okay when morning comes, and I'm a big girl now and won't cry and all that, but somewhere inside me there is a little girl who feared getting injections so much that she screamed all the way to the doctor's office - even when she was just going in for a check-up. (Mama, I am so very sorry about that.)
I do wish I had a wizard who would give me a medal for courage to make it all better, though.
(Hope this isn't too gross-looking for the Internet.)
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