I went in for a routine physical with my doctor, and after all the pokes and deep breaths, he proclaimed me fit and healthy. But then I asked him about a little waxy-like mark beneath my left eye. Looked like nothing, but I knew it wasn’t there a month ago.
He quickly glanced at it, said he thought it was probably nothing, but, just to make sure, he referred me to a dermatologist. No big deal I thought, just another appointment. I was thirty-four years old and still feeling rather invincible. Like he said, it was probably nothing.
But, to make a long story short, it was something. After a scrape and biopsy, the dermatologist, who I now see more often than my brothers and sisters, called me and said I had a basal cell carcinoma. He mentioned several treatments, but he felt this particular case was best remedied by Mohs surgery.
He explained the procedure in such a way that I was not worried. I had several surgeries before, one to remove my gall bladder, so a little cut on the cheek that would heal in no time didn’t seem to bother me. The stitches may even offer me a chance to tell a good story or two to people who asked what had happened.
Yet this is where the lightheartedness ends.
Now I will be blunt and clear. Mohs surgery is needed, effective, and important. It removes cancer from your skin. It fixes damage. It saves you in essence.
But it is not an in-and-out procedure like I initially thought. Since that first diagnosis I have had three separate surgeries. One on my cheek, one next to my ear, and one on my nose. My dermatologist told me to expect more as the years go, as I am prone to it via genetics and pure stupidity.
My father has had four or five of them, and for some odd reason, I thought my Irish/Norwegian skin could tan if I just used less sunscreen and baked longer. Since basal cell carcinoma doesn’t show up for up to ten to fifteen years, I did all my damage in my early to mid-twenties, all the while trying to fit a tan image and “get the girl”.
Now I was paying for my poor decisions. And with each little needle prick the surgeon pressed in, I cursed myself. Every time the nurse came back out into the waiting room, a place where I sat with a large bandage over the initial wound, to tell me they didn’t quite get it all out, I thought back about how inconceivably dumb I was. I was forty years younger than everyone else in the waiting room, and there I was getting my face sliced.
So I would go back into the surgeon’s room, have another round of needles plunged into me to numb my face, and then watch him dig in. When it was finally over, each time I had spent five hours in the office when you combine the fifteen minutes with the surgeon and the endless hours of waiting for the results. I left the office with a minimum of ten stitches, a handful of gauze and Aquaphor, and a follow up appointment.
The one on my cheek got sore and ugly, but in a week it started to mend nicely, as did the one near my ear. Both now are almost invisible, with no true scar to be seen. My nose is a different story. While it has been healing well, the recovery was awful. My face swelled for three days, with one or both eyes going completely shut. My teeth hurt and I had pain in my jaw. I made Vicodin my best friend for a week. It was rough, but the scar is dwindling. I doubt it will ever disappear, as the nose is pretty fragile, but I can live with it.
I have read accounts of people both praising and criticizing Mohs surgery. I have listened to people chastise their surgeons and complain about the severity of the process. And I have found myself chiming in at times, yet I ground myself with a quick question–a reality check of sorts that I think will put Mohs surgery into perspective for you.
It’s better than having cancer, right?