And we honestly couldn’t get enough of her.
Or even better, here’s the excerpt from my memoir.
It’s called Tumor Humor."
Cindy Ord/Getty Images
Guess what: It’s awesome.
Puffy, creased, spotted, tired.
I’d examine each new wrinkle, cringing as I plucked a gray hair.
As with all things in my life, I am black or white.
I took the first available appointment.
The two vertical gashes above my nose where I seem to hold my stress.
I need them gone.
They’re so deep I could canoe down them with my family."
He looked at me through his glasses, horrified.
He took them off and stared at me, shocked.
“I would never, ever inject Botox,” he said.
“I’m a medical dermatologist.
So I found one.
“Do you mind just taking a quick peek at this mole?”
“My other doctor said it was fine, but it keeps bleeding.”
“How long has it been bleeding?”
she asked, coming to check the spot on my right upper thigh.
“Oh, like on and off for over three years,” I said blithely.
“Your other doctor didn’t want to biopsy it?”
She told the nurse to prep and then sliced the fucker off.
I didn’t think about it again.
It was my doctor with the pathology report.
Not the nurse, but Dr. Cela herself.
“You have a very rare bang out of skin cancer.
you should probably get to Memorial Sloan Kettering right away .
I was slated to go under the knife four days later.
He looked at his colleague then back at me, clearing his throat.
“Fifteen percent.”
I burst into tears.
“I said one-five, not five-oh!”
he said, surprised at my weepiness.
“I know!”
I said through my tears.
“That’s still bad!
I have three kids!
That’s one in six!
As if I had time!
I was freaked but knew people did this every day and it was no biggie.
I just didn’t wanna chunder.
“Yes, totally still.
it’s possible for you to’t move or we have to start over.”
“Okay, so, it’s like twenty minutes?”
I asked, recalling a thyroid scan I’d had years back.
“Nnnnno, it’s seventy,” the nurse said.
“Seventy minutes?”
“Oh my god, I can’t, I can’t do it.
I CAN’T LIE IN THERE FOR SEVENTY MINUTES HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”
I swallowed the pill and felt the beats of my heart speeding up rather than decelerating.
And then something happened.
The door opened and in walked another patient for the same procedure.
In that moment, my whole world changed.
I pictured it being me and how I would pray to switch places.
So, see, my wish came true.
It was me over my kids.
And from then on, I never complained, never felt scared.
Okay, except when I woke up and saw the eight-inch scar up my thigh.
(Thank you, Percocet!
And Colace, for dealing with what accompanied the Percocet!)
Actually, better than okay–I weirdly dig it.
It’s a jagged badge of honor that shows how lucky I am.
And it’s a reminder that I need to slather sunblock on my kids like I’m papier-m
