I vividly remember the horrifying days of adolescence when a pimple on the nose was cause for calamitous cries of embarrassment and a wish to stay home from school. An acne breakout was a tragedy outweighed only by a particularly bad hair day. I had many of both.

Hating my looks came naturally through my teens and twenties helped along  by parents who intentionally went light on praise and heavy on criticism.  I was the chubby child with a chipped nose and crooked teeth. I was self-conscious, shy and always covered my mouth when I laughed.

Somehow, I managed to survive all that and snag my future husband at age 18 with a painted flower on my cheek and no shoes on my feet.

The prettiest I ever felt was while pregnant in my 30s  when the Boob Fairy waved her  magic wand and transformed me from B to C!  Alas, what the Boob Fairy giveth for nursing, she taketh away when done!  The rest of my 30s and 40s, I was too busy with raising two boys to spend a lot of time feeling bad about my face.

Somewhere around 50, I started treating my face like taffy. I’d pull up my nascent wrinkles and try to see what I’d look like with a little face lift.  I’d fret over my smile lines, the marionette lines from mouth to chin, the sleepy eyelids drifting south.   I was pinching and poking my silly putty face against the unrelenting pull of gravity. I thought a lot about plastic surgery over the years but didn’t have the nerve or the funds to follow up.  And the body parts continued their southward migration like retirees to Florida.  

One of the benefits of growing older, is you don’t obsess so much about your looks. Our vision also deteriorates enough to soften the edges of our visage. Not to mention, that we now have other health issues to protect and defend against. I accept my body with more grace and gratitude than ever.

And then, two weeks ago,  I read an article about a woman who lost her nose due to serious skin cancer.  It reminded me that there was a funny little red area on my nose that was really hard to see but never fully cleared up.  I made an appointment with my dermatologist and apologized for maybe wasting her time on something so minor and hard  to see.  In truth, she had to get up really close to see it.

She said very calmly, let’s do a biopsy just to be sure it’s nothing.  Three days later, I learned it wasn’t nothing. It was a  basal  cell carcinoma*.   A slow growing, but eminently fixable cancer. I needed a special surgery called Mohs surgery**.

Mohs is named for the doctor who pioneered this technique.  Essentially, the surgeon takes a  thin layer off, sends it to a lab and, in 40 minutes or so, returns to tell you they are done or they need to slice more. It typically takes four hours but could go for eight.  They told me to bring a snack and a book.  They said it would likely take several weeks to get an appointment unless there was a cancellation.

There’s another little wrinkle to my story. This one is not on my face.  In 3 ½ months, my son is getting married and I don’t want to look like a freak since I’ll be in the pictures. 

I am now face to face (or nose to nose) with my vanity.  Do I wait till after the wedding  to do the deed?  Or do I try to get it done right away?  Will I have an awful scar, be maimed for life? There was a lot to consider.

But, when I spoke to the scheduling agent, she said she’d just gotten a cancellation for the next day. Did I want it?

Did I hesitate? No. I took it. I wanted to have a lot of time to heal before the wedding. And I didn’t want this scary thing to live on my nose a minute longer than necessary..

I returned the next day with snacks, a book and my duolingo app ready for the cutting floor.

Well, I wasn’t lucky enough for all the cancer to be removed in one or two slices. The doctor returned to the operating chair a third time to say there was still a little bit more that he needed to cut.  I had been brave and optimistic up till then. At this news, the tears started. I was scared. It wasn’t a one and done. It wasn’t a two and through.  It was a three and free… IF I was lucky. Was I?

Three times was, indeed, the charm.  It was all gone. The surgeon stitched me up.  There are now eight stitches along the side of my nose.  These little black knots need to stay covered and in place for at least ten days.

I came home with a big, honking bandage on my nose. If you gave me a cigar, I could do a Groucho Marx  impression!  I didn’t want to be out in public the next few days but I forced myself to get over myself.  I went to the market and bakery the next morning to acquire the necessary recovery provisions like ice cream and cookies. I went out in a big hat, sunglasses and my bulbous bandage.

People on the street and in the shops were kind, indifferent or didn’t even notice. Get over yourself was the message I heard in my head. Nobody cares. On the weekend, we even went to a busy gallery opening where no one gave me a second glance. 

My vanity has taken a beating from this process. But I am undefeated.  The cancer is gone. I’m going to have a long scar along the side of my nose.  It won’t be pretty but I’m okay with that. It’s my battle scar. My red badge of courage. And I still have my nose.

And luckily, my future daughter- in- law is going to have a makeup artist for the wedding party.  And I’m just vain enough to be thrilled about that! 

P.S.  Please take your odd skin moles and marks seriously. And ALWAYS wear sunscreen.

*Basal cell Carcinoma: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/4581-basal-cell-carcinoma

*Mohs Surgery: https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/mohs-surgery/about/pac-20385222