"The Margins Are Involved"

"The margins are involved." I think that's how she said it. That's how I remember it, anyway. It was less than six hours ago, but I couldn't have repeated it word-for-word after just six minutes.

I can't imagine a less human way to say it. It sounds like a error at the print shop. It doesn't sound like biopsy results. It doesn't even really convey any meaning to me, whose margins those are. What were they involved in? A torrid affair with the neighboring non-suspicious-looking mole? A wild party near the elbow? Certainly no one dropped the c- bomb and no one whispered "it" over the phone.

I couldn't even think to ask the question. I was too busy looking for a pen to write down the phone number for the Skin and Cancer Clinic. A specialist. I got the news too late to make an appointment. The making will have to wait until tomorrow. The appointment is a bigger question mark. Surely not long, right?

Right now, the suspense of not knowing what my margins are up against is worse than having a plan of attack. But, I hope suspenseful is as bad as it gets. What I do know is that my 1 inch by 1/3 inch by 1/4 inch of flesh did not equal a pound and more will have to go. At best, more local, more cutting, and more stitches will go in to get more margins out.

It's scary, you know, but it feels like it shouldn't be. Why make a mountain out of a mole? Maybe it's not malignant. Maybe it's just a few more weeks with stitches and a wicked-ass scar. But right now there are so many possible maybes that they are weighing heavy. Sometimes it feels like I have to lift them all with my chest just to create the space to breathe.

I really want to shake the pressure this weekend. I don't need it dogging me like a Charlie Brown cloud on happy fun girls' weekend. So I'm putting it out here, kind of like therapy. Maybe the internet can think about my margins for me--just until I get back home. Then I'll pick up where I left off.