If you're here for a cancer update...my pathology report (that went to Quest thank the good Lord above) showed "no evidence of a residual melanocytic proliferation" meaning they got it all this go round and my cells were not melanomadic after all, just a wee bit mela-dramatic, giving us a fright and overreacting quite a bit. Who knew the wordplay with melanoma could be so entertaining?
If you're lost, and missed my original post about being diagnosed with melanoma last month, how dare you be so busy living your own life to check in daily to see what I was up to?!
And if you're here completely by accident after googling how to rid dandelions from my garden, you may as well stay and read some rather quirky tales of a Midwest family just livin' life sarcastically and faithfully.
We left off with me having an appointment to get my two biopsied areas excised. Which, I discovered, is altogether different from exorcised, though they sound similar.
I toodled off to my new plastic surgeon, the nurse got me a gown, and said, "And it's on your shoulder correct?" confirming the placement, proceeding to talk about the process, etc, but only ever mentioning my shoulder. "He's also removing my other spot right?" I verified. "Oh!" she said surprisingly, "I just saw the one on the paperwork...".
Here. We. Go. She ducked out to double check, leaving me standing there completely having forgotten if my gown was to open in the front or back. Which is what I started becoming anxious about, not the procedure itself or potentially growing cancer in my body. Rather looking dumb with my gown on backwards.
She returned with the surgeon stating, yes, two spots were being removed, she had overlooked the other one. Then we all three just stood there awkwardly until I finally said, "Do you want me on my back or my stomach?".
"Whichever you prefer," he replied.
"Oh. Ok. Are you doing my shoulder first or my other one?".
"You choose."
He clearly does not know me and my lack of decision making skills, even in small things like which restaurant to go to.
"Umm...I mean...I guess...let's get my shoulder one over with?" as I knew that would be the bigger ordeal of the two.
He marked me up, I got as comfy as one can on a metal table in a stark procedure room and it commenced.
When I found out it would be done under local anesthesia, not general, I was thrilled. General meant David would have to take me, and while he does provide some degree of entertainment, he also tends to cause some undue exasperation I prefer not to deal with in addition to everything else. Bless his heart. He was planning to take me anyway and I put the kibosh on that right quick.
But now, having been through a procedure under local anesthesia...umm...no thank you! Of course all I felt was the numbing shot, but my brain still thought I should be in pain during the slicing and sewing up, so it was all just a little surreal. And when he sewed me up, it felt like he was lacing and tightening up a shoe...which was my skin! I had to go to my happy place again, which as many of you know is picturing people falling.
After he finished my shoulder, he gave me a mirror to make sure he marked the correct place along my mastectomy scar. After I confirmed, he said, "I biopsied the wrong thing one time...you don't make that mistake again."
And you also don't tell your patient that mid procedure! I screamed in my head as I smiled and gave him back the mirror.
David texted later that afternoon to see how I was feeling. I replied, "Fine right now. Still numbed up." Then anticipating what he was going to ask next I quickly texted, "No I'm not meeting you at the gym!".
And then...
the wait...
began...
...for the results. I bided my time googling worst case scenarios, trying not to scratch out each and every last stitch, and showing off my gnarly new wound to my family.
Tate thought it was "sick" and wants one down his face. Dang it, I was almost cool.
My stitches came out 2 weeks later and my surgeon presented me a copy of my pathology report to hang on my fridge. A fun little side effect is the zapping feeling I get as my nerves begin to reattach, kinda like in the game Operation. Bzzz.
My dermatologist will keep a close eye on me every 3 months for a while.
I find it rather apropos I am writing about being cancer free on the 7th anniversary of my initial diagnosis of cancer. Obviously, not a journey I ever expected to be on, but one that's taught me so many things.
And now, my admonishment. Get. Your. Skin. Checked. If you are "blessed" with many spots like me (I put that in quotations, because I have always hated them and thought I was "cursed" as a kid), look for the ugly ducklings, the ones that don't look like any of your others. That's what made me go to the dermatologist in the first place. This little guy was just darker than all the rest. That's it. And the other one she biopsied, I wouldn't have even looked twice at.
Of course, now I'll have to tweak the tattoo I'm getting (yep, it's on my bingo board) and sprinkle in some black cancer ribbons as well.
Here's hoping I can go back to blogging about non cancer related things, goodness knows my family keeps me supplied with sufficient material.
