In January the world’s biggest pimple and his brother adorned my forehead. This was due to a sugar binge. In time, they popped, like Mount St. Helen, leaving craters in my otherwise imperfect forehead. Once upon a time that section was a part of my hairline. Good old days.
They persisted. Tried cream, attempted an antibacterial, tried a stronger antibacterial, went back to cream. I went to the doctor, he prescribed stuff, told me it might be cancerous, but more likely just inflamed. Then he sent me to a dermatologist.
“Chances are it’s eczema. Come back in two weeks and we’ll check again. If it’s cancer, it’s probably a weak cancer, nothing that will kill you. It’s fine.”
I feel sometimes doctors forget that we are not steeped in the waters of medicine. They forget the cancer propaganda, that it all kills. That it all eats you until you are nothing and die. Telling me I might have it, but it’s not a bad type, is not a comfort. I understand that all which will happen is something akin to a skin graph, and the skin can’t be any worse than what’s already there. Maybe I’ll ask for a model donor or something. Most flawless patch of skin I have. But either way, it’s still terrifying. It’s not comforting.
But hey, at least it’s not lethal.