So I had to serve lunch to twenty people today with six black stitches in my face.  I could have cared less about their lunch and perhaps it showed as I flung their lamb at them and left their coffee cups half empty…..just kidding.  Even in a bad mood I can’t give bad service but my mind was elsewhere. I had been waiting since Friday for the results of a biopsy. 
I told my husband and my sister in law that if it was cancer then I was definitely stopping at the store for a pack of smokes because why the heck would you quit smoking if you already have cancer (Bad message for the kids I know but it’s how I felt- forgive me the moments were tense.) Well, they called today and it was cancer so it’s off to the store….  No really, one was a mole- and I suppose I thank them for removing it although I wasn’t totally opposed to it and the other one was not a mole.
“I’m sorry it is basal cell skin cancer.”
Dude what are you sorry about?  Are you sorry because I am going to die?  Are you sorry because cancer is spreading throughout my body?  Are you sorry I only have six months to live?  I’m sorry is not a good way to start a conversation with your doctor.  Apparently sorry was we are going to have to dig at your face some more.  Lady dig all you want I thought with a sigh of relief.  Vanity is the least of my worries, have you seen me in the past ten years?  I haven’t looked in the mirror long enough to comb my hair much less notice a divet of skin or two missing from my upper cheek.
And I have been worried.  In the past week I have imagined every possible dire outcome.  This is what happens when you have a parent die when he is young and healthy.  My poor husband.  Under the better or for worse clause- he has definitely been weathering the worse part of that equation.  Truly all I wanted while I waited with my black stitches and please someone tell me with all the advances in modern technology why I happen to look like Frankenstein so close to Halloween; I mean what happened to clear stitches or I’ve even heard they use glue.  Sure, throw some glue stick up on that joint and I’ll be fine.  But I digress.
All I wanted since I heard the words you better go get that checked out was for things to get back to normal.  I missed the daily smooth happy little routine life I lead because I couldn’t enjoy it I was in such mental flip flop.  I also couldn’t work out because doc didn’t want me to bust a stitch and…. I got my period.  Poor Mike.  Poor poor Mike.
There’s no moral to this story though I thought it might be useful as a gentle goad come summer time to coax my teenager to use sunscreen in the summer time.  I mean how else do you get a teenager to wear lotion.  Somehow the image of me holding him down and slathering it on myself disturbs me.  I once said we’re leaving if you don’t use it which prompted a tiny squeeze and some fakey fakey fingertip slathering but not much real coverage.  But sure couldn’t basal cell skin cancer be a huge guilt inducer and a scary one at that.  Don’t tsk your tongue at me, we mothers have to use what is in our arsenal.
So…I’ve got skin cancer.  I’m hoping when they cut it out literally this Halloween they don’t leave a hole the size of Saturn on my face and go a little easy on the big black stitches, but I really don’t care much as long as they get rid of that crap and I can move onto the little things I love so much, as soon as I get out of my Halloween costume that is.