Scarface

A knife wielding man assaulted me yesterday and left a hole in my face.

He was a surgeon and left three stitches. 

The bastard.  

That's the fourth procedure I've had on my face in two years for skin cancer. All four are clustered in a two inch area immediately around my left eye.  "Why couldn't they be on my ass?"  I asked the surgeon on one of my six monthly visits.  He replied that, "That Irish women get them on the face and Irish men get them on their backs."  How unfair is that?  On my back he can slash me from shoulder to shoulder and I wouldn't care about scarring.  

My procedure was scheduled for 9.30 am yesterday morning.  Son (22) dropped me at the gate of the South Infirmary and I headed into Admissions.  The hospital has completely re-arranged the ground floor to create a one way flow system with yellow markings on the floor and disinfectant dispensers on almost every wall.  I come here every six months for my check-ups and have never seen the hospital so quiet.  

The Admissions lady chatted to me through a plastic screen with a mask covering her face.  I kept her there for a good half hour.  Maybe I was doing what I could to put off the dreaded moment but it was also just delicious to talk to a friendly female.  She told me her three grown-up children live in Dublin, Glasgow and London, she has a three year old grandchild but she lives in Glasgow and it's hard not being able to visit.  

I was then left to walk my way straight onto a ward.  Nobody stopped me.  I sat on a bed and waited.  Carmel, a staff nurse came along and started asking me questions about my health. 

"Do you smoke?" 

"No." 

"Drink?"

"Yes."  

"Average drinks per week?"

"Before the Lockdown, a can of Bulmers every other week. At the moment, a can every second night."

Carmel said that sounded about right.  While she was asking these questions, three different nurses came up to her and offered to take over.  It was so quiet on the ward, they seemed to be looking for things to do.     One of the nurses at the nurses station in the middle of the ward looked about 70+ confirming the news item that the HSE were encouraging retired staff to return to work.  

"I need you to do an urine sample," said Carmel.  

"Why?"

"In case you're pregnant." 

"Carmel," I said, "I was born in 1963.   There is no possible, earthly chance I'm pregnant.  Anyway it's surgery on my face, what can urine tell you?"

Carmel shrugged and said, "I don't know but sure I'll leave the bottle here in case you change your mind."

That took us up to 11 0'clock.  She left me and I settled on the bed to read a book.  At 12 noon, Carmel came back to check on me.  I told her I was fine but asked would I be waiting much longer.  

"You shouldn't be too long," said Carmel. "There are people booked in before you but with the new restrictions we have to stagger the admissions."

"So why did the doctor make my appointment for 9.30 am?" I said, "Why didn't he just give me a later time?"

Carmel replied, "Why don't you ask him yourself when you get up to theatre?"

We both laughed.

The surgeon had warned me when he saw me last Wednesday that he might have to do a skin graft.  He explained that because the growth is so close to my eye, there was a risk that during the healing process, the wound would contract and pull my lower eyelid down keeping my eye permanently open.  I asked whether he could just let it heal without a skin graft.  He explained that the purpose of the skin graft is to give greater control on how the wound heals and thus reduce the risk of eye dragging.    

Either way, I saw my options as bleak.   With my almost uniform covering of freckles, my skin colour is muddy and with my tendency to flush deep red when I exert myself, a patch of bone white skin taken from behind my ear and smacked on to my cheek would make me a marked woman.  Twelve months ago, prior to a follow up appointment in the Wound Management Clinic, I got talking to a lovely gentleman from West Cork.  He was in his 80s and I couldn't help noticing the golf ball sized white patch he had in the middle of his right cheek; it looked like a slice of mozzarella cheese floating in a sea of ketchup.  I couldn't drag my eyes from it.  The man eventually mentioned it which gave me the opportunity to ask about it.  He told me he had an accident while pruning a hedgerow behind his house.  A piece of wire pierced his cheek and bore right through into his mouth leaving a wound so severe it required surgery and a skin graft.  He was stoic about it saying, "Sure, I'm old, I have grand-children and I live in West Cork.  I have everything I could possibly need so what do I care about a bit of skin on my face?"   I admired his attitude but I've seen him around the city since and his white spot stands out from several yards away.  I don't think I could be as brave.     

At 12.30, I was given directions for the theatre.   The surgeon told me he would open me and see what way the skin was lying and, "If it's telling me, it will heal a certain way without pulling your eyelid, we'll try it without a graft."  

The surgeon is crafty.  He does the whole procedure while standing behind my head; that way I can't punch him.  The first time I had this done was May two years ago.  I didn't know what to expect but I assumed he would give me anaesthetic to block the pain.  I was wide awake but the overhead lamps are so bright, he put some sort of cloth over my eyes.  I didn't see the needle coming but when he inserted it, he hit the cheekbone.  The pain was so great that in my panic, I thought he bypassed the anaesthetic and was hacking into my face with a box cutter.  I couldn't bring myself to scream but this unnatural lowing sound came out of my mouth filling the room with horrible sounds.  The nurse quickly grabbed my hand.  Tears flowed down my cheek mixing with the blood.  

When it was all over, I left the hospital feeling violated.  Outside the hospital gate, I took a selfie on my phone to inspect the damage done to my face.   I was all bruises and bandages.  Seconds after I took the photograph, Facebook popped up a suggestion that I post it.  In my confusion, I thought Facebook posted the photograph automatically.  I vowed never again.   

Two weeks later, the bastard's secretary rang me.  The biopsy showed Basel Cell Carcinoma.  I needed to come back in.  I refused.  The surgeon then rang me.  He told me he needed to take out the surrounding tissue because it is better to be 99% cancer free than 95%. I told him I was happy with 95%.  He eventually talked me into going back. The second time, he was a fraction more gentle.

This time he inserted the needle in four places.  Two for the actual incision and two for the area in front of my ear where he now told me he planned to take the skin from.   That was some good news as it meant a closer match.    The needle is small but evil.   No matter that I have done this three times before and I brace myself for what is coming, I can't stop the tears.   The devil himself would struggle to come up with something just as mean and nasty.    

The anaesthetic is effective but even with it, I can hear him cutting and it sounds like taut wires snapping.  I shared this with the surgeon and he agreed.  To be a surgeon you would want a heart made of steel to cut people for a living.  

With my celtic skin and history, I can't afford to play fast and loose with sun protection anymore. No more sunglasses from Penneys for less than a fiver anymore.    Slapping on factor 50 sunscreen every morning will become my routine, as well as wearing a wide-brimmed hat and real sunglasses.  Hubbie suggested I get aviator style glasses like Bono's.   I'll look ridiculous but then my collection of four scars doesn't look so good either.