There was a time when I would have refused cosmetic surgery as a political gesture, but lately that philosophical stance just seems like a different kind of vanity.
I would certainly never undertake any sort of elective surgery, for any reason. I don't understand how anyone would take the risk, especially not in service to transient notions of beauty. Even if I cared about appearances, I've had too many post-operative complications following necessary and urgent procedures.
But right now I need eight biopsies. Five are inconsequential: tracts of my shoulder and leg can be hacked off by any old passerby, for all that I care. Positive, negative, cancer, not cancer, whatever. My only real concern is that allergies to adhesive will make it difficult to bandage the bloody stitches.
But three of the suspicious lesions are on my face. One occupies a pretty big chunk of my lower lip.
Marisa didn't like it when I asked will you still love me if they amputate my lips? Though she did laugh, at least.
When the skin cancer expert looked at my hide under powerful lights and magnifying lenses she paused, then commented These areas do not. . . heal well.
Decades of treatment dull the drama, but I do so detest this whole process. It reminds me of being a teenager, stumbling around in a medicated daze with fresh, itchy, infected wounds.
But since ignoring the problem does not make it go away (I have tested the hypothesis quite extensively) I have been forced to hire that most extraordinary of all medical practioners, a plastic surgeon.
Does it help to know the specialty developed to help people mutilated in times of war? That skilled purveyors do real good in the world, restoring lives damaged by accident or design? Uh, no.
The only thing to look forward to is the fact that private hospitals have better magazines in the lobby.
I've been sitting here all day listening to Bona Drag & arranging appointments.
Much like life in 1986. Travel far, accomplish little.