Tough Medicine: The Sequel

So, today was The Big Day. The Day of Reckoning. Judgment Day. The Final Exam.

The day I was to find out if I had to do Round Two; a fresh hell of Carac Chemotherapy.

What was left of my face was a bloody, scabby, itchy, burny, dry, yet oozy, mess. My very own hand, the Applicator of Creamy Doom, had become my worst enemy. The voices in my head, arguing about whether we "Must!" or whether we "Can't!" smear the flesh-eating Horror in a Tube on the ravaged landscape yet another time, reached crescendo after crescendo; screaming like banshees in between. I was alternately ecstatic about my doctor's visit; and abjectly terrified.

I awoke 4 hours before my 8:30 AM appointment, so I would have plenty of time to fret. There was still product in my chemo tube. What if I hadn't used enough? What if I had used too much, and would now require surgery to repair the permanent scarring? And, what if...what if...I had to do this all over?

I had read the statistics. 30% of people prescribed the Carac treatment cannot finish the first round. I realized that NOWHERE in the literature is the failure rate of second rounds addressed. I would imagine that is because there are no known survivors.

CoffeeCoffeeCoffee; the whole time knowing that I had to wash my face, removing the chemo cream that was holding it together at the moment, and then refrain from applying sunscreen - the same sunscreen that stung and burned and made me want to climb in the freezer and close the door behind me and rest my head on the Double Brownie Lowfat Double Churned Active Culture Frozen Yogurt and freeze to death - and yet sunscreen was mildly moisturizing and seemed to hold some of the blood in where I had chasms that could hold full-sized rivers. No sunscreen for me this morning, no sir! Au naturel.

I did the math. It would take me exactly 6 minutes to get to my doctor's office. So, if I washed my face 10 minutes before my appointment time, I would only have 4 minutes of naked pain before I got my marching orders.

Of course, any medical practice worth its Biohazard Box is running a half-hour late before it even opens. So there I was, nakedfaced and burning; trying to read a book about quilts that just happened to be in my trunk, because a friend had given it to me the night before. No, I haven't got the foggiest idea how to quilt. And, even though I remembered my reading glasses (which hurt to wear, by the way,) I had read at least 2 chapters before I realized the book was upside down.

Weeks later, my name was finally called. Someone in polyester scrubs featuring woodland creatures, escorted me to my next waiting area; noting that, "WOW! That's quite a rash you have there! It must hurt!" Fortunately my pulled hamstring was aching...I have a pretty decent karate kick when I feel good.

The Woodland Creature Lady assured me it would be "just a sec" before Doc appeared. Let me pause to define "sec". A "sec" is the time it takes Doc to see Patient A and her Band-Aided chin, talk into the tape recorder regarding Patient A; see Patient B who was referred by her daughter, talk into the tape recorder regarding Patient B, talk in the hall to two co-workers, talk in the hall to someone, presumably the Woodland Creature lady about me, and knock on the door. I know this because the walls there seem to be made out of mostly thin air, with some small amount of fiber added to hold generic white paint.

My face, which is now sans any type of goo for a couple of hours, is pretty unhappy; not to mention flaky and so dehydrated that the corners of my eyes have drawn together. I have univision. I feel terrible. If I don't get a good report; well, let's just say it won't go well for someone.

Doc gasps when she sees me. She says, "You must hate me!" I assure her that "hate" is an awfully strong word. I am more in the "dislike" camp.

Sensing my hostility, she is quick to say that I have had an "excellent reaction." That I "really lit up." and that she is "so pleased."

That makes one of us.

She sends me off for steroid cream, to stop the chemical reaction, I am done. DONEDONEDONE. For two years!!!!!

All I have to do is go to the pharmacy, to get the 'scrip filled. What could possibly go wrong?

Ooh! Cliffhanger!!!

Tough Medicine

It was never my intention to be born before the invention of sunscreen. And, in fact, if I had it to do over again, I would do things differently.

We had back then, of course, "Suntan Lotion". Our mommas shook it out of the Coppertone bottle and slathered us - and themselves, while they were at it - with the stuff, so that we would be as cute and berry-brown as the little girl on the label. The topless one, with the dog pulling her bottoms off. I think today that would be classified as child porn.

"Suntan Lotion" was some combination of sunbeam intensifier and cooking oil; which kept us nice and moist as we baked. The theory was that we would "tan", not "burn". That worked OK for my Italian and Greek girlfriends; but this freckled, reddish-headed, baby-blue-eyed, white-as-a-marshmallow body of mine, like a defective chameleon, turned only one color. Red. Very, very red.

Luckily, we didn't spend a great deal of time in the great outdoors while I was small. And when we went to the beach, my cousin and I were so scared of the legendary "undertoe" (gads!!! loose feet parts in the water that would haul you out to sea?) we usually stayed indoors gluing shells to tissue boxes and shopping at the 5&10.

However. My "sun-days" became numerous as I approached my teen years; thanks to an earthshattering new product which Changed the Course of Humanity. At least in the 12-year-old world. The introduction of Sun-In. Spray it on, sit outside for hoursandhoursandhoursandhours; wash your hair, wait for it to dry, and LIKE MAGIC! It would be at least a half a shade lighter! Repeat as necessary, until your mom decided your hair looked like vermin-infested straw and forbade you to buy another bottle (Which, of course, you did, when you went to the movies at the mall the next weekend. And we know now, Mom knew exactly what we were doing.)

On a side note, by the time my children were preteens, Sun-In came in a super-strength version. You could pretty much sit under a light bulb and end up with peroxide blond hair. A giant leap for boy- and girlkind, in terms of sun exposure.

But, once again, I digress.

Fast-forward to present:

NOW they tell us, because Sanjay Gupta and all his TV doc friends and Surgeon Generals and Oprah and, I think, Billy Graham, have read Very Important Studies About Teens Who Sat Outside Trying to get Their Hair Blond, we shouldn't have done that! Well, where were all those Einsteins when we needed them? Someone should have passed an Anti Sun-In Resolution ages ago.

And here is why.

Yeah, I spent most of the summers of 1969 and 1970 in the sun; buttered up, smelling like coconut and bleaching my head. But, as soon as it was cool, I was on the Sunscreen Wagon. I slathered. I didn't bake between the hours of 10AM and 4PM, and I didn't "work on my tan", which I never would have achieved anyway.

And yet, I am now in the middle of 21 days of hell, Carac treatment for facial skin cancer. My face burns/itches/hurts/burns. I have sores in my mouth, nausea, and a throbbing headache. I look like I fell headfirst into a fire ant hill. People at the grocery store stare. Every half hour I put an ice pack on my face.

And I am supremely grateful to my dermatologist; who, during a "skin scan" discovered my face full of "micro-lesions"; each one of which could have grown into a world-class problem. And will now be an EX lesion. Eventually...

Moral of the story: Get checked now. Get checked later. Do the time. You might look like this for a while:



And you might, like me, want to cry. But don't - it stings. And you'll be able to cry, and laugh, and live and love for years to come.