When Your Dermatologist is a Perfectionist, Part Deux (Or, I Think I Have Forehead Cancer) [UPDATED]

UPDATE: So, I've been notified via text message by one of my 3 readers that this post makes it sound like I legit have cancer. I don't! Don't worry! I'm just being ridiculous. Always assume that I don't have cancer. Unless I'm writing in super emo speak. Then, yes, assume away about the cancer. But no, right now, I'm just the ugly chick with the normal type of cyst.

Oh, but actually, the murdering of my face with a syringe was successful and I am basically cyst free now!

However, Blonde Beyonce did point out to me that this whole episode really didn't matter because I have bangs and no one can tell if I have a cyst or not anyway. But it's nice to know that I don't have to have bangs for the rest of my freaking life now.

So you may carry on without fearing for my life.

Original Post:

I had to ask some very pertinent questions of The Boyfriend today. Questions like, would you still like me if I was disfigured for the rest of my life? and, what’s better? A scar or a lump?

I’m sort of concerned, because I’m not really getting an answer. Unless you count, “Awww, Cysty! Could be a pretty name!” as an answer to either of those questions. Which it isn’t. Because I threatened to punch him if he ever said anything like that again.

Which is maybe why he isn’t responding to my questions.

Anyway, I’m stressing right now because there are so many arbitrary things that can go wrong with your body! It’s ridiculous! In fact, if this was a hundred years ago, I’d already be dead. I would have died at the age of twelve. Of pneumonia. So every year after that has been thanks to the miracle of modern science.

Fucking A.

I mean, I’m generally pretty healthy. I have a stomach of iron (hey, if I can eat dog meat off a street cart in Hanoi and not even get the slightest bit ill, that must mean something, right?). I get over basic colds quickly. But when something goes wrong with my health, it goes really, really wrong.

This past year has been pretty eventful – what with testing positive for tuberculosis (yay! No one will insure me! And I have to take nine months of meds which could potentially destroy my liver!) and then there was that thing with my kidney.

I thought it was a lower backache.

And then I thought I had the flu.

I unfortunately have a very high tolerance to pain and other forms of physical suffering. Which means I do stupid things. Like, when at the age of twelve, I ran a mile in physical education with pneumonia. No biggie. I just coughed up some blood and inadvertently caused my English teacher to suspect child abuse/neglect.

And, a few months ago, my kidney nearly up and died on me. But I just took some ibuprofen, and went on a road trip. People, listen to me. THERE IS A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOWER BACK PAIN AND YOUR-ORGAN-IS-COMMITTING-SUICIDE PAIN. I know this from experience. I also know this because I walked myself to the hospital after I started urinating blood, because I am smart enough to figure out that ibuprofen doesn’t solve that problem. Plus the nurse took one look at me, moved me to the front of the emergency room patient list, and had me hooked up to an IV in 3 minutes flat.

Apparently, running a 103 degree fever for a week is really bad. The only upside was that I was amazingly skinny, because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks, and I had sweated all the water out of my body. Oh, and I cleared up my brother’s misconception that kidney donors had to be the same height as kidney donation recipients. Which is good, because next time this shit goes down, he’ll know that I already own his right kidney. And there won’t be any unsportsmanlike muttering.

What this experience has taught me is to not underestimate my health problems. Which is why I’ve jumped to the other extreme, and decided I have FOREHEAD CANCER! GAH!

Really people, it’s not that insane! Cancer Dad had his first round of cancer at the age of 22, so really, I’m right on schedule. Only his was lymphoid cancer or something, and they had to take off half his face (don’t worry, they put it back. Plus he regained feeling and the ability to move it, which was not expected). I only need a sharp stab to the forehead. And then everything will be okay!

See, I have this cyst. Nobody can tell it’s there, but I can. And dammit, that’s a fucking problem. Said cyst is standing between me and perfection – perfection I have suffered for! If I had to go through all this topical medication crap, only to have perfectly clear skin marred by an inexplicable forehead cyst, bitches are going down!

See, I got the stupid cyst injected with cortisone a while back, and it basically disappeared – except, since I have to live with my face, I could still see it. And feel it. And so I went back to the dermatologist today to get it looked at again.

If you haven’t read my other post, go read it now, because it’s essential to understanding my love-hate relationship with my dermatologist. See, I go to see her about getting rid of my potential forehead cancer, and instead she prescribes me $70 worth of other shit, because apparently my acne medications are just not working up to her standards.

She’s all, if your face is peeling, then it’s working. And I’m all, but it was peeling, it just isn’t anymore – isn’t that a good thing? Am I supposed to choose between acne and snake face for the rest of my life? Or does this have a happy ending, dammit?!!

See, she gave me a choice on whether to up the strength of my medication, because apparently my skin is up to normal people standards, but not her standards. And she gave that I will be gravely disappointed in you if you do not follow this through look, and I crumbled. Yes, please doctor. Give me movie star skin. Even if it means I will peel like a python for the next three months.

But now back to my forehead cancer please.

Well, my dermatologist takes a look, whips out a syringe, and gives me the most painful shot I have ever had right in the middle of my forehead. Oh. My. God. It did not feel like that last time. Maybe the last chick (who was standing in for my regular dermatologist) wasn’t aggressive enough, and that’s why I still have a forehead tumor. Because this bitch just murdered my face.

And then she’s all, “If this doesn’t work, your only other option is surgical. But the cyst is so small, that the scar would be worse than the cyst.”

WHAT??!

ARE YOU TELLING ME I HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN FOREHEAD CANCER AND A DISFIGURING SCAR?

Okay, this is not alright. You’re telling me humans have walked on the moon, but nobody can remove something that’s the size of a grain of rice out of my forehead without disfiguring me for life??!!

There is something wrong here.

No. I refuse to have a lump on my face for the rest of my existence. Even if it’s a lump that only I can see. Because, dammit, it’s the principle. Can’t we just laser the scar off? Jesus, are you letting a tiger maul me? Because, really, I’ve done some pretty terrible things to my face, and all the trace evidence is gone. So I’m really curious now.

But if it’s cancer, they have to remove it anyway.

So hook up the laser, and let’s get this procedure underway.

Ugh, you’d think she had told me I was going to die. I hate hearing that things will be happening to me for the rest of forever. Like when that idiot doctor told me I had blepharitis, and I went around for two years suffering from reoccurring eyelid space plague and secretly crying to myself because I was doomed to be the female version of Quasimodo, but then scary dermatologist woman diagnosed me with dermatitis and cured me in a week. A WEEK. I had been suffering for TWO YEARS. So imagine my dismay that she, dermatologist superwoman, cannot get rid of my microscopic forehead cancer!

I’M DOOMED.

P.S. Well, maybe not. The forehead cancer seems to be getting smaller and smaller since my face got murdered this morning. So, potentially, I still have a chance at perfection.

P.S.S. But what if it doesn’t go away? What if I have to choose?! Because I think I want the scar…

P.S.S.S. Now that I’ve gone and confessed this problem on the internet, people are totally going to start looking for my forehead cancer. And then I’ll HAVE to go under the knife. Fuck.

P.S.S.S.S. I JUST WANT TO DIE.

P.S.S.S.S.S. That’s a lie. I continue to be awesome. Even with forehead cancer. Man, I talk a lot about cancer and murder on this blog. Okay, new tagline: “Murder and cancer: both funny.”