One Week From The Mohs

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I’m feeling nervous about this Mohs thing.  It’s only a week away.  When I was first diagnosed with skin cancer I didn’t think too much into it.  Don’t get my wrong.  At first I was devastated and scared out of my mind.  Then I was okay with it.  Then I was stressed by the words “disfiguring” and “reconstruction”.  Then I was relieved that it wasn’t melanoma.  I was going to be just fine.  Nothing to worry about.  Piece of cake.  Just a few stitches.  After all it was only basal cell carcinoma.  Totally curable.  Nothing to be concerned about.

As you can tell my emotions over the last several months have come in waves.  Not the easy going waves that slowly come in from the protective reef but the turbulent ones that pull you under, knock the wind right out of you and bring you to the surface gasping for air.  A roller coaster of sorts really.  Lots of sharp turns and drops that make you sick to your stomach.

On my consultation day about the Mohs.

Now here I sit a week away from my Mohs procedure…  Not just anyone’s Mohs procedure.  But my Mohs procedure… And I’m feeling stressed all over again.  I’m dreading the week that is to come.  Procedure is really just a nice word for surgery.  It’s supposed to make a person feel less anxious.  A procedure could be something as simple as getting a new color on one’s hair.  With my stylist and my mass of hair now that’s a procedure.  This Mohs thing should never get to play the procedure card.  It’s NOT just a procedure.  It’s a surgery.  It’s a big deal.

Where the skin cancer is located.

Depending on the circumference and depth of the skin cancer my face might never look the same again.  Sure there’s reconstruction.  I already met with the separate plastic surgeon for that and he will be doing the repair the very next day.  He’s confident and talented and says that he will do his best to make me look normal but then in the next breath he uses words like “skin graft” and “scarring”.  How’s that for looking at the bright side?  What will I look like after?  Will I be a monster for a while?  Forever?  Will my eye not be able to fully close again?  Will my children be afraid of me?  Will he fix me?  Will a part of my face die right along with the skin cancer?  I know I must sound incredibly vain.  Maybe I am.  But it’s how I’m feeling right this very minute.  I won’t even have the answer to any of these questions for another week.  At that point I will be right in the thick of it.  And that is why I’m feeling stressed, why I’m feeling so much dread, and why I’m feeling so very vain.