Tuesday I had surgery to remove my cancer, today I got fired from my best-paying steady gig. A column I've been writing for over two years. Cancer surgery and canned in the same week? Ouchie.
I know bad things come in threes, so I'm terrified to see what the rest of the week(end) brings. Do I not leave the house, check my email or answer the phone? In better news, I got the pathology back from my doctor—it's all clear. They got all the cancer, which frees me up to quit worrying about death and apparently start freaking out about being broke. Oh well. At least I'm not dying. If you want to see the stitches—and believe me, it's a really disgusting situation, I've put the picture after the jump. I call it my FrankenAnkle.
Yesterday I checked into NYU Medical Center and got that cancer cut right out of me. It was a more involved process than I thought it would be, but it's over. Relief doesn't begin to explain how I'm feeling. (That's my hand—it's not that wrinkly, it's just the weird saran-wrap-like tape they use.)
It's little the things that freaked me out the most. For example (sorry squeamish people!) yesterday was the second day of my period. You ladies know that's probably the goriest day. Well, apparently when you have surgery you're not allowed to wear a tampon. They don't want you trailing blood everywhere, so the hospital supplies you with a pair of sterile underpants and a giant, diaper-like pad. While I wasn't expecting even Target-level underroos, the item they supplied was so weird looking, I didn't even understand that it was underwear for a minute—it looked more like spongy mesh hand towel than anything you could possibly wear. Once I figured out it had legholes, I put it on and immediately felt my dignity flush away with my tampon. (I looked around online, but I couldn't find a pair to show you. You really need to see these things to believe them.)
This is where I spent most of yesterday—NYU Cancer Center. I got there 15 minutes early, as directed, and met the big guy in the waiting room. The first thing you notice as you walk in is that the front desk isn't called "reception" or "patient information," they call it the concierge desk. So I checked in with the concierge, who ushered me into another room for a brief interview with someone who got all my insurance info and ID. I'd been fast-tracked in (which scared the crap of out me, but also made things move along), so it only took about five minutes. The woman gave me a few sheets of paper and I headed up to the fourth floor to meet my brand, spankin' new oncologist, Dr. Karen Hiotis.
So it was an exciting week over here at Casa McGuire-Opoulos. First, I got a daily blogging gig at the Seattle Weekly, and then on Wednesday, I was diagnosed with melanoma. (There are three different kinds of skin cancer and melanoma is the worst.)
I had noticed a little mole pop up on my left ankle a couple months ago, after we got back from Puerto Rico. At first I thought it was a shaving cut, but when it didn't go away, I took a closer look and realized it was a mole. A mole that was different colors and had irregular edges.
