An Unintentional Beard

I have been growing a beard for almost three weeks, but not because I want to be trendy.

My family has a history of skin cancer. I'm careful to apply sunscreen in the summer, and I try to keep tabs on changes in my skin. In November I noticed that a spot on my cheek had become darker and angrier.

Charlotte later told me, "I saw that on your face dad, but I thought it was just food." Thanks a lot, kid.

It scared me when I woke up with a small scab on that same spot, and I nervously told Daphne, "I don't care if I have a scar on my face. I just don't want skin cancer." The urgent care doctor didn't seem to think much of my spot, but she scheduled an appointment for me to see a dermatologist. He performed a biopsy on November 26.

The results came back three days later. I didn't have skin cancer. I had an "abnormal mole." Unfortunately, the first biopsy didn't remove all of the abnormal cells. They would have to dig deeper. I was going to have stitches on my cheek and later a scar there. 

That's when my attitude took a wrong turn. Instead of being thankful that I didn't have skin cancer, I was immediately concerned about my appearance. Talk about being ungrateful.

I scheduled the procedure during winter break. When I was put on hold, the song playing on the phone was Rod Stewarts' "The First Cut is the Deepest." And no, I did not make that up.

I was instructed to keep my wound covered for six days after the surgery, and I was also told to not shave near a healing wound. I suppose it would be too easy for the wound to reopen. But there's the rub. It's very hard to get a bandage to stick to facial hair. You have to go big to get the job done.

This is not very stealthy:

When you are wearing a bandage on your face, it feels like people are looking at you with suspicion. What's he hiding under there? How did get that? Is he violent? It was a relief when I could stop wearing the bandages. 

The first scar wasn't too bad*. It was healing nicely, and I was looking forward to shaving. I say first scar because six days later the dermatology department called to say I needed to come back for a third time. My new wound was going to be bigger. 

When I got the news that I would have to do this again, I went out to the garage and stomped the life out of a cardboard box that was waiting to be recycled. To add injury to insult, I hurt my foot during that tantrum, and I embarrassingly limped the rest of the day. It wasn't my best moment.

The second surgery was last Thursday, and I got the call yesterday morning that I don't have to go back in for a third one. All of the irregular cells in that area have been removed, thank God. That is such good news.  

The stitches come out on Friday. After that I'm going to concentrate on healing and beard maintenance.  

And being more thankful.

* I had thought about posting a couple of pictures of my stitched up wounds, but Charlotte overruled that idea. "Well, not everyone wants to see that, Dad."