the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Death to Ed

This morning my doctor forcibly evicted the basal cell carcinoma from my arm. In the past week he has become an unruly tenant, has been drunkenly yelling at his cat in the middle of the night. His new home is a small, plastic container that is right now being delivered to a dark laboratory. There he will spend the rest of his short life being examined, researched, and playing shuffle board with all the other excised cancers whose owners say they’re going to call but never do.

I had Jon take a picture of Ed this morning before we sent him to die alone in a pool of his own urine. He was a handsome fellow:

Those stitches are what my doctor had to use to close up the chunk she took out for the initial biopsy. When I came home that afternoon, Leta noticed the prickly ends of the stitches and then contorted her face into a shape that made me think she had just witnessed a man smelling his own feet. “Yucky!” she screamed. “It’s a bug!”

Here’s what Ed’s home looks like now:

The procedure was mostly painless, except for the initial needle prick when she numbed the area. When she said that she was going to have to send him off for another biopsy, I asked if afterward the lab could package him up and send him back to me. Maybe via UPS. She said probably not, and also? That she probably wouldn’t want to get to know me in real life.

The bad news is that today she found two other places on my body that she wants to have removed, a mole on my stomach and one on my back. These other two places actually look worse than the one on my arm, I just never really noticed them because they are in places usually covered entirely by clothing. So it’s not over yet. I know it won’t ever really be over, so much damage has been done already that I’m going to spend the rest of my life as a slave to sunscreen and the operating table at my doctor’s office.

Please look at these horrible pictures and cover yourself up. Put sunscreen on yourself and especially on your kids. Every day. Every single day.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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