| Stupid White People and Your Crappy Northern Genes |
[Jul. 5th, 2008|03:42 pm] |
Thanks so much, Scots-Irish ancestors, for not evolving any more damn melanin. I was feeling pretty good getting to stay away from the dermatologist for two whole weeks, so I almost didn't bring up the little dry skin flap next to my eye that got ripped up a bit while I was taking gauze off the gaping (but getting smaller) head wound.
Me: It's probably just age...
Doctor Movesquick: Noooo, that's precancerous for the bad kind this time. {immediately attacks with the liquid nitrogen canister he keeps in his pocket. The liquid nitrogen is so cold it shocks any possible "is that liquid nitrogen in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me" joke out of me.} That's the kind that becomes lymphoma, so it's SPF 9000 and big hats for you from now on, my dear.
Me: Crap!
DM: You're just really, really white. Ever get sick after being out in the sun?
Me: Well, there was that time in a walkathon I got hives from the sun...
DM: Um, yes. WHITE. And that didn't teach you to stay out of the sun? Stick one arm out in the sun for 15 minutes every once in a while to get some Vitamin D, but other than that--6-inch brim. Now.
I checked my giant sun hat I got for last month's wedding when I got home--3.5 inch brim. How huge is a hat with a 6-inch brim? I'm going to look like the freakin' Queen Mother. |
|
|
| Er...Are You Trying to Imply Something? |
[May. 16th, 2008|01:12 pm] |
An exciting moment at the doctor this morning when he pulled the gauze off the Matrix plug-in in my forehead and, along with it, pulled a scab off my temporal artery, causing me to Dexter/Jackson Pollack right across his pristine white lab coat. (If I would ever get around to posting a real surgery report, you'd know that the initial excision attempt was an alleged bloodletting [I don't think it was that bad] because of this artery, so today was not entirely unexpected.) Which led to the following:
Doctor: Here, I've put a pad right there, you just hold some pressure on it while I set some other stuff up. Yeah, right there, put your finger in...(seizes up like an Edsel engine)
Me: Unfortunately for the Tina Fey movie I'm living in, I happen to be straight, because otherwise your telling me to put my finger in the hole in the dike would have been fuuuuuuunnnyyyyyy.
Doctor: I really was thinking of the little Dutch boy!
Me and Nice Nurse: (uproarious laughter)
Doctor: Words used to mean different things!
I know I am living in an as yet unmade Tina Fey movie because of spin class yesterday. We had just cranked up to a heavy climb out of saddle when the hole in my head and its accomplice, the medicinal bandage, decided to ooze/drain copiously. Although I did manage to whip a wad of Kleenex out of my waistband, I found my glasses earpiece was getting in the way, so before I knew it, I had my glasses in my left hand, which was out on the horn of the handlebars, and my right hand holding a wad of Kleenex up to my drooling forehead, all while peddling up a fake hill. The must-be-fictional approach was confirmed when I went outside after class to find I had a flat tire.
Really, it's a film just waiting for a title. |
|
|
| Kobe Bryant Assaulted Me! Arrest Him Before Game 5! |
[May. 14th, 2008|03:09 pm] |
I figure if I have to have two black eyes, I'd better get something out of them, so if I can make false accusations removing the MVP (*sigh*) from tonight's Jazz playoff game, that will be sufficient justice, I think.
Actually, I guess I don't technically have two black eyes--just two swollen ones that should be black eyes, but the skin hasn't really changed color. One "black" eye was expected, since it was just below the surgery site, but spreading over to the other eye is causing some hilarity. It's also causing me to delay the overall surgical report--freezing tissue is cool!--because I kind of can't see straight to type for very long (arrest Kobe!), but overall things went well and the hilarious doctor is well-pleased. Accusing me of overdoing it post-surgery (how much can you overdo it if your surgery was performed in the doctor's office with some lidocaine? Now if you'll excuse me, I need a nap), he has demanded that I repeat the following mantra: "I'm sick. No, really, I'm sick. I should go lie down for a little while." He's obviously very into holistic healing.
While I'd planned to post pics of the exciting surgical interventions, I think you'll thank me for not doing so. Let's just say I could plug the Matrix in through my forehead right now. But my first stitches are pretty damn impressive, so I've been lumbering around saying, "Fire BAAAAAD" for my own amusement. I'll be glad when they come out, since they freak me out with their bristly-ness every time I touch them.
Anyway--if Kobe plays tonight, you'll know I've failed. Or that my eyes swelled shut enough that I couldn't see the police lineup and fake identify him. |
|
|
| Every Cloud Has a Silver Tumor |
[May. 3rd, 2008|12:13 pm] |
Had been getting a wee bit nervous about the excision of the cancer, largely because it's the unknown (what if Godzilla attacks in the middle of things and all of the medical professionals run, abandoning me half-scooped? What do I do then? It could happen.) Have had a realization, however, that makes if all fluffy and warm.
Our spinning instructor has been making noises all week about how we're having not one but two Race Days next week. This sounded foreboding, a suspicion born out when someone finally explained that this means going at 85-92% of maximum heart rate for the entire ride. Oof. So I'd started stewing about being the only person to slide off my bike on Race Day, or being the person who gets dropped off the back of the pack first.
And then it came to me (in the shower, no less)--according to the little pamphlet on the scooping, there's no way I'm going to be allowed to "race" less than 24 hours after the scooping for fear that blood will shoot across the room from the new Matrix plug-in in my head. Say it with me--"I'm so sorry, I can't do Race Day--I have the cancer."
Sweet. |
|
|
| Well, Now I'm Just Bitter |
[Apr. 29th, 2008|04:15 pm] |
ShanaP made the brilliant decision to have a mole removed as a non-food reward for meeting fitness goals (go, ShanaP!). When her dermatologist noted she'd have to wear a bandage, the conversation went like this:
ShanaP: Eh, no worries. I'm going to a wedding soon with a friend; we'll have matching bandages. She had this pimple-like thing on her forehead that didn't go away, and they told her it was psoriasis...
Dermatologist: Oh, no way that's psoriasis.
He managed to correctly diagnose me from 2500 miles away and with no visual evidence. No, I'm not bitter at all, why do you ask? The moral of the story, folks, is either to get second opinions or never go to doctors in the first place. I'm leaning toward the latter. |
|
|
| Cue Schwarzenegger Voice |
[Apr. 25th, 2008|04:36 pm] |
Almost halfway in between diagnosis and in-office "surgery," I've come to a strange conclusion about the cancer, and that is that calling it cancer doesn't bother me. I know people who have struggled or are struggling with real cancer, and calling this non-threatening annoyance that is basal-cell carcinoma cancer seems embarrassing by contrast. So the idea that there is cancer on my head is surprisingly non-upsetting. Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer on the head. See? It just doesn't bother me.
The recollection of the dermatologist talking about a tumor, however, gives me the wiggins. Oh, what I would have given, when the doctor said, "Um, no, that's a tumor," to have had the presence of mind to go all Schwarzenegger and reply, "It's not a tooomah!" But the idea of a tumor on my head--regardless of whether it had been really benign or essentially non-threatening as this one is--is just gross. Non-threatening cancer? Fine. A tumor? Grotesque. The damn thing looks no different than it did the day before I knew it was a tumor, but now it seems...oogy.
So I decided last night that it was stupid to wait for the doctor and that I may as well just cut it out myself.
(You should probably stop me when I start talking like this.)
The difficult question, however, was what instrument would work best. Although pinking shears seemed like a nice option because there would be no need for stitching up the edges when I was done, their relative thickness was offputting. Alton Brown recently did an episode of Good Eats that taught me the best way to hold a paring knife, which might work; I also considered a pizza cutter. No unitaskers in this kitchen! Really, it seems like there is probably a best tool for the job, if I could just figure it out.
It's an interesting dilemma, though (the issue with the nomenclature, not the excision tool, the latter of which didn't seem like quite as good an idea in the light of day)--why the issue with "tumor"? Doesn't a rose by any other name get lopped off just as easily? |
|
|
| And This Is The Thanks I Get |
[Apr. 17th, 2008|03:42 pm] |
| [ | Tags | | | the cancer | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  irritated | ] |
| [ | music |
| | M83: Saturdays Equal Youth | ] |
(Let's note for the record right here that this is NOT A BIG DEAL. Really, it's fine.)
So I feed my body nice things like salmon and lots of fresh veggies. I take it spinning. I get my 10,000 daily steps and deny it dessert. And how does it repay me? By giving me the (skin) cancer. With friends like these, who needs enemies?
There is no reason to panic--it's the "good" kind (basal-cell carcinoma), or, as my kind of hilarious new dermatologist puts it, "It's the kind that eats your face, not the kind that kills you." I find this strangely comforting. So they just cut it out and I'll move on with my life, albeit covered up like Nicole Kidman every time I leave the house.
The part that's really chapping my (cancerous) hide is that there would have been less to cut out before I move on with my life if it hadn't been misdiagnosed by a medical professional ten years ago. (Of course, when I say that, I'm just misdirecting my rage at myself for not getting a second opinion at any time during that decade. Working backwards, I can see how the logic happened, but still: rage). They're clearly very concerned about my imminent demise, as they scheduled the surgery for next month since the doctor is going out of town. This is one of the ways you know it's not a big deal; additional ways include the fact that the surgery is done in the dermatologist's office and that they tell you to suck it up and take Tylenol afterward. Still, I am declaring a fatwa on the sun and wondering why I shouldn't just rub a cupcake on the cancer.
I do, however, plan to milk it for all it's worth: no, I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly serve on that committee--I have the cancer. No, I really can't teach a Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule--I have the cancer. I'm sorry, but I really don't think I should have to stand in line here--I have the cancer. In those situations, no one really needs to know that I think this barely even qualifies as cancer.
The topper--as the doctor was taking the biopsy and chattering away merrily, I felt something drip on my collarbone. Thinking it was probably blood, and wanting to save my blouse, I threw my hand up (as one does)...only to catch a little pink rubbery thing. Doctor: "Oh! Oh! Sorry! Oh, Mike, can you get that from her and clean her up? Sorry, sorry--I just dropped your tumor on you." It's gonna be like that the whole way, isn't it? |
|
|
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
mikijean's journal
amused
determined