I made a Facebook and an Instagram post on Monday, announcing to the world that I was going to have Mohs surgery the following day. I only posted a photo of my forehead because I wasn’t feeling particularly good about how I was looking, tired, baggy-eyed and old. I said my forehead would be looking very different by the end of Tuesday. This was the photo:

Well. At this point, f**k it. I look like I’ve been hit by a car. Or worse. Not to mention the whole experience was utterly exhausting, and, quite frankly, traumatising, so why not show the world exactly what I look like?

As some of you know I had a hysteroscopy a month ago. Something I was deeply anxious about, partly because of the early start, I’m at most fragile in the mornings. In fact the worst part of that experience was the 3 hour wait. Everyone in the ward was so lovely and kind, from cleaners to anaesthesiologists. The general anaesthetic went smoothly and they found absolutely nothing wrong. It seems the ‘period’ I had (after so many years of never having one, I am 65, after all) must have thinned the lining of the uterus which is what brought me there in the first place, fast-tracked in case of cancer. In some ways it all felt a bit of a waste of time but still, it was a relatively easy process, and I felt it boded well for the Mohs surgery. It did not.

Once again it was a very early start (8:30 am at the hospital, an hour drive up there), and once again, I was last to be seen. There were five of us in a small, neon lit, windowless room. All of us were going to be treated for basal cell carcinoma. Thankfully we found a nice indoor garden to wait things out. Three of the patients had one ‘pass’ – removal of the offending area, the surgeon got it first time. Two of us had to have three passes, and I was one of them. There was at least an hour wait in between whilst others in the room were being seen to. The ‘passes’ themselves were not difficult, local anaesthetic not painful. But for some reason they did not protect my hair, and I had at times red streaks, mopped by one of the kind nurses as best she could until I looked like I’d had a pink rinse. I was very, very tired, but okay. The surgeons were professional, one a young man originally born in Zimbabwe and we talked about how the Zimbabwe and South African accent, when modified by living elsewhere, can sound ‘posh’ even when we are most definitely NOT posh. He joked about people thinking he came from Eton and had a trust fund. I had similar reactions (not Eton, obviously) especially when I was waitressing in Covent Garden in my 20s.

When they finally said they’d got it all, I was told it would take an hour before the reconstruction, but in fact it took two hours as the woman before me had a complicated reconstruction. It was five pm by the time I was brought in. This time another surgeon was in the room, so there were three, plus the two nurses.

The local anaesthetics were excruciatingly painful. I was shown what they were going to do to cover the large 50 pence sized circle they’d removed from my forehead (over an inch in diameter). One long slit at my hair line, another in the middle of my forehead, and then they would pull that flap over to cover the hole. They worked fast, and hard. My head felt pushed one way and then the other as I tried to hold still. My hands were clenched in fists under the surgical sheet they’d placed over me. I could hardly breathe, I kept telling myself to take long slow breaths but it wasn’t easy. By the time it was over I felt, well, brutalised. It should have been done under general anaesthetic and most people in the Facebook support group for this that I am in agree. The long drive home. The extreme exhaustion. The local anaesthetic wore off, and while there was not really any pain other than some stinging, my scalp on the left side was – still is – completely numb. I was warned this could happen, as they cut the nerves when slicing across the forehead like that.

To be honest, if I’d known it would be like this I may not have agreed to do it. I was given the option not to. it wasn’t invasive cancer, just possibly the area could grow over the years and look unsightly. Well it looks pretty unsightly now and who knows how long it will take before the scars look okay – if they do. Certainly it’s going to take many months. In the meantime there has been some oozing of blood from the top as you can see in the photos. I return this coming Tuesday for the dressings to be seen to, and for the surgeon to take a look. Unfortunately David will be away so I have to take hospital transport, and who knows how many trips up there I might have to do. Blood or fluid seems to gather around that left eye lid, making me look like I’ve been punched in the eye. A few things I take away from this – and the last procedure – to insist that I be seen FIRST. I have ME/CFS. And regarding Mohs, if I ever do it again (unlikely), to insist the reconstruction be done under general anaesthetic. And can my hair please be put in one of those plastic operation caps or something? (I’m not allowed to wash it, and who knows when I will be).

So, now you have seen me at my worst. Well I hope it’s my worst. In the meantime just to add to the fun, my sciatica is still raging after flaring up in June, after nearly 4 years of being managed so well with medication and exercises. I’m trying another medication and waiting a second MRI. I made my brother laugh when I told him I think the Universe has decided my body is the perfect vehicle for some interesting experiences…. I do hope I’ve had my quota by now but I suspect not…

Previous blogs of mine on my physical situation:
The Good, the Bad and the Uncertain
Stopping the Fight
The Untellable Tale
My Late-Stage Lyme Treatment
My Late-Stage Lyme Diagnosis
The Art of Illness: Part Two
The Art of Illness
Finding Home
Doctor, Doctor
44 Weeks
Still Suffering
ROCKS AND FLOWERS
Feeling Normal
The Real Story
The Unendurable, Part Two
The Unendurable
IT’S NOT COVID
More Things I Don’t Want To Talk About
On Being Invisible