Welcome to Mohs
Everybody knows that surgery is no fun. Almost two weeks ago, I had a skin cancer (basal cell) removed from my forehead. When my doctor told me I had a skin cancer, I was a bit unprepared. I went to have it biopsied because of vanity. I had a red, sometimes itchy and flaky, spot over my right eyebrow. I really do not remember when it first appeared, but I know it was after the birth of my second child, who will be eight in July. Feasibly, it has existed on my face for seven years.
My surgical dermatologist looked at me like I was a complete idiot when I told him how long it had been on my face. I tried to explain to him why I would let such a spot continue to exist on my face.
"Women are prone to blemishes," I began. Then I moved on to another female excuse.
"I thought it was my hormones. it did come up after my last pregnancy."
When he asked me why I didn't have it checked out any earlier, I weakly responded, "Well, I thought I was just getting older, and it may have been an age spot."
I should really give myself a reality check. I was only 32 years old when it appeared. Age spot? I wouldn't accept that excuse either.
I arrived at my doctor's office for Mohs surgery with some expectation of what would happen that day. No one can say I was not prepared--they mailed me a packet of information two months before the surgery explaining my type of skin cancer, how it was treated, side effects of surgery, and how cold it would be in the waiting room. Three of the four pieces of information I took seriously. I really should have carried my sweater.
When I returned to the surgical room for the second time, I asked my doctor how many of these surgeries he performed on average each week. "38-45," he replied. That was reassuring. He was making a killing at around $2000 per person, based upon what I paid. I started to do some simple math. He easily brought in $14,000 that day because seven patients were sitting in the waiting room with bandages on their faces that morning. With a little more math, I realized he could be bringing in anywhere from $75,000 to $80,000 per week.
Before he stitched me back together, he asked me if I wanted to see what he had done. He handed me a mirror, and I looked at the quarter-sized hole on my face. I quickly handed it back to him.
"It would be probably be more interesting if it weren't on my face," I mumbled.
Twelve stitches later, with instructions on wound management in hand, I went home.
My surgical dermatologist looked at me like I was a complete idiot when I told him how long it had been on my face. I tried to explain to him why I would let such a spot continue to exist on my face.
"Women are prone to blemishes," I began. Then I moved on to another female excuse.
"I thought it was my hormones. it did come up after my last pregnancy."
When he asked me why I didn't have it checked out any earlier, I weakly responded, "Well, I thought I was just getting older, and it may have been an age spot."
I should really give myself a reality check. I was only 32 years old when it appeared. Age spot? I wouldn't accept that excuse either.
I arrived at my doctor's office for Mohs surgery with some expectation of what would happen that day. No one can say I was not prepared--they mailed me a packet of information two months before the surgery explaining my type of skin cancer, how it was treated, side effects of surgery, and how cold it would be in the waiting room. Three of the four pieces of information I took seriously. I really should have carried my sweater.
When I returned to the surgical room for the second time, I asked my doctor how many of these surgeries he performed on average each week. "38-45," he replied. That was reassuring. He was making a killing at around $2000 per person, based upon what I paid. I started to do some simple math. He easily brought in $14,000 that day because seven patients were sitting in the waiting room with bandages on their faces that morning. With a little more math, I realized he could be bringing in anywhere from $75,000 to $80,000 per week.
Before he stitched me back together, he asked me if I wanted to see what he had done. He handed me a mirror, and I looked at the quarter-sized hole on my face. I quickly handed it back to him.
"It would be probably be more interesting if it weren't on my face," I mumbled.
Twelve stitches later, with instructions on wound management in hand, I went home.
Labels: basal cell, dermatologist, Mohs surgery, skin cancer
posted by Jules at
10:28 PM
3 Comments:
I almost laughed out loud when I read, "It would probably be more interesting if it weren't my face." Then I felt bad for almost laughing during the reading, but I could see the moment so clearly. Dang, Julie, you have the beginnings of another memoir here. Excellent.
By
Donna Sewell, at 9:06 AM
The title is great. And with my recent doctor visits, I have to say it amazes me how cold some of those rooms can be! It is healing nicely, so I guess the surgeon earned his money that day. For that price, he should!
By
Heidi, at 10:18 PM
You did a great job interjecting humor in a very serious subject. I loved your title. I hope you have a speedy, uneventful recovery.
By
wendyb, at 1:48 PM
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