modern medicine

Refugee At Home

On Monday I had a small patch of skin cancer removed from the bridge of my nose. It sounds like a big deal, but it wasn’t. The procedure itself felt no worse than having an earlobe pierced: There was only a quick, surprising burn as the doctor applied a local anesthetic, but the actual procedure seemed to last no longer than a network station break. It was only the sound of cutting that got to me, the dull snip of flesh—the sound you might hear if your dinner companion chose to cut their meaty filet with a pair of cuticle scissors. That aside, it felt relaxing to be lying down in the middle of the day, under a warm blanket, a pillow tucked beneath my knees. I dozed off. When I awoke, I had a bandage on my face the size of a hamburger bun. I touched at it curiously, […]

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A Toast to Cancer

A small, red wound—no bigger than a poppy seed—appeared mysteriously on the bridge of my nose a few months ago. At first it sat there quietly and behaved itself, and I assumed the strange bump would heal steadily and vanish as furtively as it had arrived. Only it didn’t, and pretty soon it started to grow bigger and act out. One day it would bleed; the next it would scab over in a sort of mini, leathery patch; and then, right when it seemed the ugly scab had almost disappeared—when it seemed we’d soon part ways—it would open up and bleed irritably again. Day to day, I couldn’t predict its mood; it was like living with a touchy teenager. Eventually, I realized that I would need to make the necessary arrangements to evict the tiny squatter. And so I went to see a dermatologist, who peered at my nose suspiciously

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