I got a call from my dermatologists’ office today. Unfortunately, the biopsy I had taken from the side of my nose tested positive for basal cell carcinoma. So on top of everything else in my life, which has been pretty eventful recently, I have skin cancer. On the plus side, if you’re going to get skin cancer, this is the one you want. It doesn’t spread, it’s slow growing and it’s easily treated with out-patient surgery. That doesn’t mean I’m in a good mood about it though. It basically SUCKS. So I emailed Bob and told him the news.
“That sucks,” he replied. “Do you want your Christmas present early?”
“Why, do you think I’m going to die before Christmas?” I wanted to ask. But I didn’t say this out loud, because I know he was just trying to be a Sensitive Husband. And he knows how much I love unwrapping presents.
“No, that’s okay. If I open my present now, I won’t have anything to open Christmas morning and that would make me even sadder,” I replied.
Every woman reading that last sentence knows that the only correct answer here is to say, “Oh honey, I’ll buy you another present for Christmas, don’t worry.” CLEARLY that is what was needed at the moment. Unfortunately, while Bob is working on being a Sensitive Husband, he’s not there yet so he just said, “Ok, I’ll see you tonight.”
At dinner we talked about the surgery I’m going to have. It’s called Mohs Surgery, because it was invented by a guy named Frederick Mohs. I explained the procedure to Bob over a nice juicy steak.
“They take tiny pieces of tissue off and look at them under a microscope,” I said. “They keep taking off little pieces until all the cancerous cells are removed and all that is left are the good cells. Then they sew you back up.”
“What if you end up with a big hole in your nose?” asked Bob.
“I don’t know, Bob,” I replied. “I guess they’ll take skin from somewhere else and put it on my nose, probably from my butt or something. And that’s just what I need, another dimple on my butt!”
“Yeah,” said Bob.
“I can’t believe you agreed with that last comment, Bob.”
Bob just stared at me. “I didn’t mean it that way and you know it. Your butt is fine. I was just trying to be Empathetic. I’m sorry I agreed with you.” Unfortunately, he didn’t feel sorry enough to volunteer up my Christmas present again.
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