SURGERY? MAYBE NOT.

Regular readers of this blog may recall that exactly two years ago I had to have the left side of my face sewn back together.

I had a bout of basal cell skin cancer that turned out to be reasonably large and somewhat stubborn. Well, damnitall, if I didn't find another spot that looked just like the last one, but on the exact opposite side of my face from the other spot.  My PCP gave it the "You should probably go see a dermatologist yesterday" speech, and luckily I already had my yearly appointment set up for three months hence.

That appointment finally arrives.

I forget that this epic adventure starts with my scalp.  I still have the remnants of a black fly bite that I got recently.  The reminder of the bite is on the back of my scalp by the top of my neck.  The bastard that bit me was like a mini Dracula, sucking the living buhjeezus out of my skull, and, unlike when I was a kid, I just don't tolerate black fly bites, deer fly bites, horse fly bites, or mosquito bites with any kind of tolerance anymore.  Instead, I blow up like I'm allergic to every bug ever gifted to Earth.

After the scalp, I go through the usual, "Hey, look at this age spot!" routine, even having one of them chemically frozen off.  Oh, joy!  Finally -- all those years making diodes and working with liquid nitrogen pays off when I show zero fear and complete recall of what it feels like when one accidentally gets splashed with a small amount of that shit.  Like mini pins and needles, and yet like nothing at all.  Best thing about this part is that I'm not going to blow up like I've been bitten by some nasty little insect bastard.

Finally, it's time for the Main Event.

The dermatologist takes one look at my lovely spot (growth?), immediately sticks me with a numbing needle, then slices that bad boy right off my face.  "I took the top of it off," she tells me.  Yes, I gathered that from the amount of blood my face has decided to expel in her general direction.  She then tells me that I will probably be able to do a phone consult before the surgery and avoid that whole "come in and meet me" routine since the surgeon and I are already well-acquainted.

So certain are my PCP and my dermatologist that this is cancer again that I have already started making plans for my time out of work.  I won't be able to talk for days; I won't be able to lift anything for weeks; I'll need to get school plans in order... My brain is absolutely in overdrive getting ducks in rows.  I'm thinking, "Will this happen before Halloween?  Will I be able to eat at Thanksgiving?  Should I put the surgery off until after Christmas?  Can it wait and roll into a school vacation?"

Days later my cell phone rings as I'm driving home from work.  I don't recognize the number, but it's local.  I answer it, and it's the dermatologist's office.  I'm thinking that I wish I had a pen and some paper so I can take notes and numbers and...

"There are some atypical cells, but, unless it grows back on its own, you don't need further surgery."

Um, what?  Can you say that one more time?  I think maybe I have a bad connection.

I hardly believe it.  I won't miss anything! I won't miss holidays or work, and I won't have to have the right side of my face sewn back together, at least not right now.  I'm so happy because I really, really love the holidays, and I really, really like to talk.  Most of all, though, I am not the right kind of person to be the sad-faced clown.  I'm feeling damn lucky, so, as the biopsied area heals, I can go back to concentrating on important stuff ... like that wonderful and totally normal little black fly bite along my hairline.