The mark on my face is so tiny, you can hardly tell it's there. At its worst it was a small pink thing that might adorn the face of an adolescent. The only hint of danger may have been the sharp pain when it was touched, like a tiny angry demon that roared when my finger got too close and occasionally shed tiny tears of blood. It's nearly invisible after the biopsy's beheading, asleep just below my right eye. I don't want to disturb it. I want to leave it alone, but I know it will come back. They always come back.
I know about the puffy scars scalpels leave in their wake, and can already envision the crooked centipede stitch tracks that will meander awkwardly from my puffy black eye around my nose down to the jawbone. I can already see the large gauze pad glued to my cheek with blood and held on with crisscrosses of tape. I can see the shocked stares when I walk by as people wonder what happened to me. And I can feel the slow tickle of pain as the incision comes to life, dulled slightly by ibuprofen and sleep. I miss my mom's fjord blue eyes. I miss her prayers.
An old schoolmate's baby grandson is fighting leukemia; that is infinitely worse. And in the scheme of things, this is nothing. The tiny demon has politely remained on the outside - at least I hope he has. And as far as cancers go this is the little brother, the small bully who just might be knocked out with a single punch.
Sometimes it is not easy to remember how very, very lucky I am.
