Wednesday, 30 March 2016

Oh poop, I have skin cancer






Shit, I have skin cancer.
On my face, and on my ear.
I spent an hour today with a dermatologist who burned and froze various portions of my face and took a chunk out of my right ear.
The doctor was nice. She said, "Well, if it's any consolation, if you're going to get cancer, this is the best one to get."
With that she lopped off an unsightly bump on my chin.
"At least you won't die from it."
Lovely.
People might say we the skin cancer people have only ourselves to blame.
We've spent too many hours in the sun playing tennis and golfing without the benefit of hats or sunscreen. Of course, we didn't know about sunscreen when we pinkos were lathering ourselves with baby oil back in the day.
And we scoffed at it when the news came out that walking on sunshine could kill you.
Me, I've stayed out of the sun, for the most part, for about five years and put sticky stuff on my heaving bodice. I don't go south and I do what the experts suggest and only come out with the vampires.
I still got skin cancer.
It's infuriating because I have been to at least four doctors, including a specialist in the last few years, and asked about my ear and the spot beside my nose. Dr. Ben, the worst family doctor in Ontario, told me four years ago not to worry. The skin that was peeling off my ear was from a bed sore, from sleeping on a hard pillow. Now I realize why Dr. Ben left Ontario -- to avoid malpractice suits.
But the other doctors were just as bad.
Not a one sent me to a dermatologist.
And so I've been living with skin cancer for years.
They're probably going to have to lop off half my ear, and I'll finally become a true artist like Van Gogh.
I guess I'll have to learn to love hats, and long sleeves.
Go skinny dipping at night at the cottage.
Of course, it could be worse.
I could be Jennette or my other friend Frankie who both had oral cancer.
Or yet another of my other friends who have cancer in their innards.
I suppose it's a rite of passage.
Turn 60.
Get cancer, and hope it's the curable kind.
Now I'm part of a club nobody wants to join.
Lucky, lucky me.

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