Moles and Monsters

I had to have a mole removed recently. Not so much a mole mole as a splotch, a flat, discolored smudge about the size of a nickel, borderless and nearly inconspicuous among the follicles. It was right along the part in my hair, which is the only reason I noticed it in the first place. It hadn’t hurt, hadn’t itched, and hadn’t caught my finger weird in the shower. I’d just seen it while combing my hair and knew that it looked questionable. Suspicious, even.

I had two moles removed on my back when I was in high school. They’d been more typical moles, relatively normal shape, if a little oblong, but with clear, defined edges and a consistent color. The doctor recommended their removal because they were large and could pose a problem in the future. If he removed them, they never would. Problem solved, worry gone.

I found a dermatologist to look at the mole on my head. They were able to get me in quickly, which I appreciated. I thought on that first visit they’d just do some intake, look at the thing, and tell me to keep an eye on it. Instead, they took a biopsy. It came back as “highly atypical” though not cancerous, but still said I should come back in to have it removed.

When I had cancer, it was actually the second time I had part of my thyroid removed. The first time, the tumor was bigger, but not cancerous. The doctor recommended removal because it was large (most thyroid tumors are millimeters in size, while mine was centimeters), and could pose a problem in the future. I had the lobe removed. Problem solved, worry gone.

For the mole removal, I was supposed to have the spot removed and come back two weeks later to have the stitches out. But when the doctor saw the spot, she abruptly made changes to the procedure. Now, instead of leaving with permanent stitches, I would be leaving with temporary stitches. I’d have to come back in one week to get the permanent ones in. She wanted to wait to permanently close the thing until we got the results back, until we were sure we’d gotten all of the “highly atypical” cells. Immediately the fear rushed in — what is she seeing now that makes her think we won’t?

For that second thyroidectomy, the one to remove the rest of the organ, finally overtaken by cancer, we had to make sure we got all the “highly atypical” cells too. The cancerous ones. The concern is always that the doctor will get in there, and realize it has spread, spread too far and too fast and now something else must be done. I was lucky. I didn’t have that. The removal of the remaining thyroid lobe, a couple parathyroids, a little scraping, and we got it all.

She’d gotten it all with the spot on my head too. I went back in after that first week, and she immediately let me know that it all looked good, no more atypical cells, and she could go ahead and close it up. An easy procedure, just a little prodding and poking.

I’ve been cancer-free for nine years. I still take medication every day (Synthroid, Calcitriol, calcium) to make up for the loss of my thyroid and parathyroids. I’ll do that for the rest of my life. I still see my endocrinologist every six months (full blood panel, ultrasound) to make sure all the numbers stay in range. The hope is that one day that will become only an annual appointment.

I don’t know that anything will come of this weird spot on my head. I’ve got eight stitches, and fear of a gnarly scar and a bald spot. I also have a fear that, three years from now, despite the precautions, something will appear. Because it’s happened before. That thing that was supposed to make it all go away, that was supposed to eliminate the risk, to stop a problem before it started — it didn’t fucking work.

And here’s the thing: I feel stupid worrying about this. I want to go back to those other mole removals and let them just be pockmark scars that I never think about again, out of sight, out of mind. I feel like a child, asking for my mom, scared of the non-existent monster under the bed.

Except the one thing I know now, the one thing I can’t ever forget is that it’s not a non-existent monster. And sure, maybe it has moved on. But maybe it’s dormant. Or hibernating. Or lying in wait. Even if I never have to deal with cancer again, to go through surgery or treatment again, I’m always worried something is going to grab my foot as it dangles off the edge of the bed. Every medical appointment and procedure brings with it that looming “what if”. Something mundane and routine always carries the question of turning. Of becoming something more, something worse, something unexpected. That scar doesn’t go away, any more than the one across my throat or on the top of my head. It may lessen or lighten with time. I may get better at keeping it from the world. But I know. And I worry.