Blog

Update June 11, 2022

I was a teenager in the 70s. Back in those days, it was all about the tanning. About baking in the sun until you burned to a crisp, because you had to burn before you could tan. To facilitate this burning, we’d spray ourselves repeatedly with water or use oil, in the case of the latter literally frying ourselves. I can’t remember how many burns I’ve had, although one particularly bad one was acquired in Las Vegas when I sat too long next to a pool. I still have scars on my legs from that.

You can see where this is going, can’t you? Repeated burning, plus tanning, combined with a very fair complexion and I’m a prime candidate for melanoma.

I had a large mole below my left knee. Along with two other, smaller moles, it created a neat sort of triangle, just below the scar from a long-ago surgery. I liked the way they looked, a little bit of balance in the middle of my leg. Part of me.

Then I went to a dermatologist for a mole check. It was not the first time I’ve done that (see above re: 70s, burning, fair complexion), but it was the first time that I did not get sent home with a clean bill of health. My balancing mole was “suspicious” and another, on my calf, “definitely something,” he said with a decidedly laissez-faire air. Not surprisingly, I was less sanguine about it all and asked nervously what might happen if it was indeed melanoma. “Ah, pshaw,” he said and dismissed it with a wave of his hand, “melanoma is 99% curable.” This did not help my nerves much, as I once knew someone who fell into the 1%.

A few weeks later, off I went to see a plastic surgeon, who did not think the moles were melanoma. This agreed with my inner voice, which was convinced I was fine and who here doesn’t trust their inner voice? But the only way to find out for sure was to remove the offending parties, so she did.

I have friends who have had moles removed and it was a quick slice, 1-2 stitches et voilà, they were done, so I expected a fairly easy process.This was not the case.

I get to the clinic and they tell me that the freezing will feel like a bee sting. Uh-huh. FROM A KILLER BEE! ON STEROIDS!! I discover, while my eyes start sweating, my hands clutch the armrest and I hold my breath for a really long time, because if I hadn’t been, I’d have been swearing. Vociferously. And as you know, I try to maintain a ladylike exterior at all times.

And if you’re done snorting about that last comment, I’ll continue with my story…

They then left me alone for a bit while we waited for the freezing to take hold. At this time, despite having my composure rattled somewhat by the “bee sting,” I was still fairly cool, calm and collected. This was nothing, right? I regularly have dental work without freezing and even when I do get a local anaesthetic, there are rogue nerves preventing it from working. And besides, I’ve had a chronic, painful disease for decades with attendant hospital procedures. This is nothing. Right?

Still, although I was fairly sure I wanted to watch the procedure, I decided not to, as regretting watching would be way worse than regretting not watching. And then she came back and started carving out chunks of my leg. If you are wincing a tad, protesting that my description of the procedure suffers from an attack of hyperbole, let me comment that anything that needs two layers of four stitches each to cover a hole the size of a nickle can legitimately be termed a “chunk.”

The second wasn’t as bad. It only needed 3 (i.e., 6) stitches. And after feeling the blood run down my leg, the tugging of the sutures and listening to the doctor asking for two specimen jars (ewww) to send to pathology (more ewww), I was no longer quite as cool, calm and collected. It’s amazing how a procedure can unexpectedly push you from feeling self-assured and in control to being a frightened patient. Especially when you’ve allowed yourself to forget that minor surgery is nonetheless still freakin’ surgery. Sigh.

I made an appointment to get the results, walked home, popped into the supermarket for some groceries and held it together until I come home. At which point I allowed myself a brief period of shaking.

I kept the bandage on for about a week, then was driven nuts by the itching and took it off myself. The other was a little more interesting, as I couldn’t reach it. I don’t shave my legs — not only am I blonde, but it was winter in Toronto and I needed every bit of insulation I can get my hands on — and at some point, it occurred to me that maybe I should’ve. Unfortunately, the time this thought arrived was when my attendant was ripping off the adhesive bandage on my calf and doing a rather intense, extremely localized wax-job at the same time.

Spending a week and a half seeing the stitches instead of my balancing mole was strange. I missed my mole. Felt lopsided without it. But once I got the stitches out, I realized that there’s going to be a fairly obvious scar — really, I thought plastic surgery was supposed to be less in-your-face than this — so I still have a balancing mark. The results were good news: no cancer. Notwithstanding the opinions of my inner voice, by the time I’d moved from the procedure room to the front desk, I realized that I was breathing properly again.

Nonetheless, I am posting a picture of what my leg looked like all sticched up. I’ll make the picture small-ish, as one or two squeamish people I know are likely already sitting with their heads between their knees and breathing into a paper bag (the non-squeamish can click on it for a larger version and I know there’re some of you sickos out there).

But y’know… getting frightened about this is good. Reminds you to always, always, always wear sunblock. Not merely sunscreen. Sunblock. Or it can be expected that you’ll have chunks of your body removed.

Read Part Two of the tale when the other two moles were removed.