Tuesday, October 30, 2012

BCC

Herself got the call from the dermatologist - the biopsy was positive for basal cell carcinoma (BCC).  Mohs surgery has been scheduled for early December.  The hardest part now will be the waiting - for Herself's panicky brain shouts periodically, CANCER! GET IT OFF NOW!

How can this be? She is 45, far too young to have the label of "cancer" affixed to her. And yet, there it is.

The good part: research tells us that metastasis is extremely unlikely (less than 0.1%).  And so, Herself need not worry at this time about chemotherapy or mortality.  (She breathes a tiny sigh of relief that she will retain her hair.  She has grown quite fond of her ponytail, and would be sad -- yet unhesitant -- to sacrifice it for treatment if it were necessary.)

The ongoing part: the odds are that this is not the sole time she will have to address BCC.  There is a 35% chance of another BCC within 3 years, and 50% chance of another within 5 years.  In fact, as she surveys her pelt through the lens of a skin cancer diagnosis, she is already concerned about a few other tiny aberrations that she has previously dismissed as mere skin eccentricities.  She has an appointment later this week to check those as well.  I think she may start to feel better once those have been examined too.  Or worse, depending.  We shall see.

The slightly more difficult part:  80% of all BCC occur on the face and neck. While Herself is not particularly vain, she's rather unhappy about the seemingly likely possibility that she will accumulate a collection of little facial scars as these things occur and need to be removed. She does not like to call attention to herself, and the scars will, unfortunately, do so, particularly immediately post surgery.  She reminds herself that bandages and bruising/bleeding will be temporary, and that although scars are forever, hopefully they can be minimized. 

This is the first time that she will have a surgical scar that is visible to the public.  

Her body has required more of these small medical interventions over the years than she ever imagined it would.  She knows things could be worse, much worse, and is grateful that they are not. Still, she is sad.  It is clear that her days of youthful beauty, whatever little bit she may have had, are gone; and while intellectually she understands that physical appearance should be unimportant, a quiet kernel inside her heart still longs to be found attractive. Why? I cannot answer.

Right now, she wishes for the reassurance and comfort of physical proximity. She doesn't really want to talk much.  What she wants, most of all, is a hug. 

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