Carry On Cancer by Claire Alexander
I sob like a f****** child.
Blood tickles my neck as it meanders across my throat and drips dark red onto pure white sheets. A tear trickles into my ear. This tickles too. Neither are feelings I’m terribly interested in laughing about.
‘Nothing to worry about, just a wee electric shock’ I hear.
I just want them to get on with it. Get in about it - continue singeing those blood vessels. Blood creeping into the areas of my neck with feeling makes my mouth fill with watery saliva.
We carry on.
I’m lying on my side. I hear the noise of scissors snipping through felt. More watery saliva.
Luckily, I avoided the need for the revealing hospital gown so my dignity is intact for this, the second operation to remove my cancer.
Don’t panic! It’s only a little skin cancer.
If you could see me you’d know I’ve never been on a sun bed. I’ve been abroad, but I’ve never had anything that could be described as a tan or even ‘having a little colour’. I’m pale. Real pale. When I go outside the sun puts lotion on.
Five internal stitches, eight external stitches, horizontal tear stains across my face and what looks like a sanitary towel stuck to the side of my neck. I leave the hospital. So much for dignity.
My mum drives me home. It may seem like I’m looking out across the rolling countryside pondering recent and possible future experiences. My mum knows better. Really, the drastically uneven skin coverage on my neck is forcing this pose. ‘You’re just jealous ‘cause I got a neck lift on the NHS, aren’t you?’ I pivot round to see her reaction and I know I’m right.
Due to the lack of feeling in a portion of my face and neck this absurd poise will stay for several days. In the car, I flip down the passenger side mirror and angle it towards me. With mascara staining my face and the left corner of my mouth drooping I look like a sad clown. ‘You look ridiculous!’ I think to myself and smile at my personal hilarity but only one corner of my mouth lifts.
I spend most of the day on the couch. The local anaesthetic wearing off induces yet more watery saliva.
I stare blindly at the TV over my repeat prescription for SPF 60 sun tan lotion which sits folded on the table in front of me. My ticket to year-round invisible but impenetrable body armour.
Since my diagnosis I’ve taken to issuing some of my own sun safety slogans.
‘Better sun safe than sun sorry!’
‘Practise safe sun!’
Melanoma awareness was becoming surprisingly humorous until a day like this. When I’m forced to realise that the cancer is actually real.
