Go for Mohs

I have that northern European combination of blue eyes, blond hair (well, it was blond when it was there), and skin cancer galore. The skin cancer, of course, would never have happened if I’d stayed in the cold, dreary, miserable, damp climate I was familiar with in England. But no, I’m in the U.S. and loving the sunshine and the tan. At least I was until the second fifty years kicked in. The doctor has just finished the third cancer digging expedition into the depths of my head and this one wasn’t pleasant. I say, “this one,” because the three experiences have been quite different from each other.

The first time, I had something called the Mohs surgery which was great in that you would never be able to find where it was on my face — no scars or marks remain. They sent me home with a big bandage wrapped around my head held in place by a rather fetching black sweatband. OK, that was the only bad bit about the Mohs procedure.

The second time a “general surgeon,” whatever that is, dug into my scalp, left a few stitches in for a week and I believe there is nothing visible today.

Today, though, the bad spot was about an inch from the mole where the Mohs occurred. Today’s doc was talking about how I’m going to have a scar and, “it’s going to be bigger than I would expect!” Bigger than I expect? I wasn’t expecting a scar at all.  So I asked him why I wasn’t getting the Mohs and he told me it depends on what the dermatologist recommends. If it’s going to affect my looks (and therefore, my psyche, I guess) then Mohs is used. Today’s cancer was determined to be on my forehead rather than my temple so it’s scar time. I have a huge forehead — more of a fivehead really — so I certainly think I should have been consulted on the spot where my temple ends and my forehead begins. My little psyche is already upset.

I’m left with a big indentation where the doc dug deep into my head and a lump on either side of the dent. It looks like a miniature skateboard run. Plus  it hurts.

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