We have just passed the year anniversary of Herself's Mohs surgery for basal cell carcinoma. She went today for a one-year follow-up and annual pelt survey. Keeping an eye on all the little things is good.
She wasn't aware of exactly how anxious she was about the appointment until she realized, as she sat in her panties and blue medical gown, that she was sweating even though her hands were ice-cold.
The good part about visiting the dermatologist is that this physician's staff members are courteous and warm, and they don't bat an eyelash even when examining the minutest of all dermatological foibles in intimate detail. Herself is less self-conscious than she might be otherwise. She pointed out all the little things -- "what's this? And this? And this here is new and doing something different...". And she was reassured each time.
The two small concerning spots on her face were oddities that were not cancerous (yet), and addressable with judicious use of liquid nitrogen. She may look a bit as though she's been poked in the face or lost a battle with Tiny Dog for several days, but that is of no consequence compared to the relief of eliminating further issues with those areas. The rest of her dermis looks just fine, nothing remarkable other than typical freckles and age-related changes. She need not go back for another year, unless something unusual arises.
Phew.
When addressing health issues, Herself is practical. She remembers her routine maintenance appointments; she makes other appointments when they are unavoidable/necessary; she listens to the doctors, researches, and makes careful decisions regarding treatment and maintenance and such. What must be done, must be done.
As she tromps patiently through her medical terrain, though, she recognizes that deep within her there's an agitated, tearful, needy creature. A creature that panics at the medicinal smell of the offices. A creature that is anxious at the sight of the ancient magazines that have occupied other nervous patients' attention in the waiting room. A creature that shudders and sweats in the medical gown. Of what is the creature so afraid? Medically-induced vulnerability? Pain? Yes. That is to be expected.
Moreso, though: the creature is also afraid of what may or may not be found. If the body is examined closely and nothing untoward is found, she might be mocked for raising an unfounded concern: Hypochondriac, silly girl. It's all in your head. Or, oppositely, a problem might indeed be found, and she will be scolded: Why did you wait so long? What were you thinking? You should have spoken up right away. You've made things worse for yourself. Or, worst of all: an error is found, and there will be cold, supercilious indifference. Fingers will point, and mouths will jeer: you have brought this upon yourself, and you must reap what you have sown, with your own pain, alone. You deserve what you have wrought. There will be no comfort for you.
We understand, Creature. We wish we could console you, and tell you: Sometimes, things just happen. It is not your fault. Fret not, for we will be with you, and will hold your hand, always. It will be OK. You will not be alone.
One year later, the scar is nearly invisible on the outside.
*
No comments:
Post a Comment