carolbarbieri.com archive of past issues	Lemonade Stand  By Carol Barbieri	Tell others about this page
	Too Old For Pimples, Too Young For Cancer Published 4 May 2000  - Atlantic Highlands Herald

When I was a teenager, getting a pimple was just about the worst thing that could happen to you before a party, dance or date. It didn’t matter where it appeared on your facial landscape. Right in the middle of your forehead was about as bad as right on the tip of your nose. You prayed to make it disappear in time. And if that didn’t work, you prayed that you could just find a way to hide it from the world.

I thought the days of "acne prone skin" and "breakouts" were pretty much over for me, once I turned forty. But last year, a pimple arrived, to remind me of those "good old days." It was an unusually persistent pimple, which situated itself right on the left side of my nose. A beak with a beacon! It was clinging to my face with the tenacity of a cliff climber and fighting for its life with the pugnacity of a barroom bruiser. Nothing would get rid of it. Well, nothing would get rid of it for good, that is. It kept disappearing and then reappearing. The Phantom Flaw. Now you see it. Now you don’t.

I purchased every elixir available to the common consumer that I could find, and quickly began a ritual of self-healing. I cleansed the thing with antibacterial soap, doused it with alcohol and peroxide, and waged war on it with every anti-zit weapon on the market. I applied vitamin E externally. I took vitamin E internally. When those methods didn’t work, I began a regimen of cortisone cream and ointment, antibiotic ointment and cream and any product that contained "Retin A." I "toned" and "exfoliated" until my skin screamed for mercy. I squeezed the leaves of the aloe plant, to extract its magic potion, and used versions of its vera in the forms of gel and lotion. I soaked, scrubbed and soothed that spot with every product on the shelves that you could purchase without a prescription.

I wore makeup on it. I kept makeup off it. I put a bandage on it, to help it heal. I took the bandage off it, to help it heal. When I sunbathed, I exposed it to the sun’s drying rays. When I rode my bike, I blocked it from the sun with an SPF that could repel Superman’s X-ray vision. I did everything but fashion a voodoo doll in its image and cast a spell on it. It still wouldn’t go away.

Finally, when I was clear out of remedies, I did what every other red-blooded, pimple obsessive, computer-literate American would do; I searched the Internet.

When I had examined enough medical web sites to earn an Honorary Doctorate degree in dermatology, I chanced upon a skin "photo gallery" of sorts. It depicted, in disgusting detail (detail so minute, I might add, that the amoebae were practically visible), every kind of skin abnormality known to humans. And right there, in living color, I saw it: the "lesion." My lesion. The pimple was a pimple no longer. And, in this case, "a zit by any other name is not a zit." It’s basal cell carcinoma of the nose! That’s what it is! And that’s what it was. I had skin cancer.

"Early diagnosis!" being The Slogan of the ’90’s that it is, I made an appointment to see my dermatologist right away. I told my self that, if I had cancer, it was cancer and it always shall be cancer, forever and ever, world without end, Amen. I could wait six weeks or six years, and it would still be cancer. Avoiding an appointment with the doctor wasn’t going to do anything except make it worse. All the hoping, chanting and praying wasn’t going to make it disappear. So, to the doctor I went.

I was trying to remain calm, while I was sitting in that examination room. But when the doctor walked in, it took every ounce of control I had in my corpuscles to not grab him by his tie, pull him up to my face and say, "This is basal cell carcinoma, isn’t it?" Well, that was actually what I said to him (but I spared his tie). He looked at me with that look which many doctors reserve for their "educated patients," that is, the patients who "take an active role in their diagnosis and treatment." It’s the look that says, "So, where the hell did you get your medical degree?"

What he actually said was, "You’re too young to have skin cancer."

Well! That was all I needed to hear. And that was all I wanted to hear. Done deal. Diagnosis determined. Case closed! So long, Sam! (Now I wanted to grab him by his tie and kiss him!) I was so happy that a professional had evaluated my case and had given me his unbiased, non-neurotic, utterly objective opinion that, I could have just popped! All those pointless, sleepless, sweat-drenched nights I had endured were for naught. All that worrying was for nothing! Glory hallelujah! I was going back to church!

But there still was the little problem of that thing on my nose. That anonymous, ominous eyesore. That thing that, until that point, would therein be referred to as "lesion," until we could pin down a more accurate name for it.

Okay," I said. "If this thing isn’t cancer, then what is it?

"Well," he said, "it could be an enlarged pore."

An "enlarged pore?" (Praise you, Lord Jesus!)

"Or," he said, "it might even be an inflamed hair follicle."

An "inflamed hair follicle?" Well, it wasn’t the most glamorous thing to have, but it sure beat having skin cancer! I was already trying to come up with euphemisms to call it, when all my friends and family asked for a report. But I was so happy to be floating on that blissful sea of relief that, I would have gladly settled for a diagnosis of tinea, that common (but somewhat embarrassing) fungal infection, more widely known, Boys and Girls, as ringworm. I was truly blessed.

Then, the doctor advised me to "go home, keep it clean and come back in about six weeks."

"Come back for what?" I asked.

"For a biopsy," he said.

"A biopsy? But I thought you said that it wasn’t skin cancer?" (Holy Mother of God, pray for me.)

"Now wait a minute," he said. "I didn’t say it wasn’t skin cancer. I said that you were too young to have skin cancer. You usually find that kind of disease in people in their sixties, seventies and eighties. But there are exceptions to every rule, you know." (The winds are beginning to pick up again on the Sea of Tranquility, Men. A storm was brewing. And we had six weeks to batten down the hatches.)

I went back home and began boiling the water in the cauldron again. This time, though, the gods were merciful and the lesion disappeared completely. I was actually lesion-less for about a month.

Then, the White Headed Monster reared its ugly head again. This time, though, it came back like a banshee. Before you could say "biopsy," I was back in the doctor’s office having one performed.

"It’s cancer," the nurse said over the phone the next week. "But not that really dangerous cancer, melanoma," she reassured me. "If you are going to have cancer," she said, "this is the one to have!" Hear that, Ladies and Gentlemen? I’ve got the good cancer! Now there’s an oxymoron for you.

I know that she was only trying to cheer me up, and that the kind of cancer I had wasn’t life-threatening, but I was really having a hard time coming to grips with that word, cancer. I was in a veritable swoon. "Okay, I’ve got cancer. Deal with it. And now get rid of it.

All things being relative, I not only began to accept that I had cancer, but I started to admit to myself that things could always be worse. I remember saying to a friend (once I

had calmed down), "Hey, look at the bright side. It could be worse. I could have cancer right on the tip of my nose, right?" Ha, ha. Then the doctor found another lesion right on the tip of my nose.

What transpired in the course of three months, was a blur of two surgeries, four black eyes, and twenty stitches. I endured swelling, scarring and pain. I fought an infection, battled an allergic reaction to an antibiotic and cried a sea of tears. I still need one more surgery, but I’ll emerge from it with a "new nose," which will really be my "old nose," restored back to its original form. I never really appreciated that nose, when I had it, come to think of it.

Okay, so what have we learned from this experience, Boys and Girls? I learned that my family and friends will love me, no matter how I look, and that my smile, not my nose, is my most attractive feature. I learned that any condition, that could be potentially dangerous, is best nipped in the bud (or in the beak, as it were). I learned that it’s important to take stock of the gifts you’ve been given before you lose them (God forbid) and not after. And, most importantly, I learned that, during times of crisis, it’s essential to remember that things could always be worse. It really could have been worse for me and, all things considered, I was lucky to have the "good" cancer.

I’ve decided not to go out in the sun anymore, even though the doctors say that the damage to my skin has already been done. But, when I do go to the beach, I’ll be easy to spot. Just look for the solar-phobic blonde, sitting under a ten-foot umbrella, who’s dressed like a nun.

Life is full of surprises. I never thought I’d ever get cancer. I never thought I’d ever get a nose job. And I never thought I’d ever look in the mirror and actually be happy to see a pimple!