Today the bandages came off for the first time.

I stared at myself in the mirror for awhile, then turned to Byron. I said “Normal people would be really upset right now, wouldn’t they?”

He looked, and sighed, and said “Yes.”

Lucky I’m not vain, or normal.

The surgeon was impeccably conservative, taking only the tissue that needed to be removed, and verifying each layer with diagnostic tests. The reconstruction was performed by a world class plastic surgeon, and he feels he achieved an “excellent result.”

Would you like to know what that looks like?

It looks like my face has been slashed open. Think duelling wounds, or fending off a knife attack.

I honestly don’t know or care what other people think of my appearance. I don’t care if you notice the scar, or what you think.

The only opinion that counts is my own, and this scar is disturbing because I can see it. Looking at it reminds me of things I prefer not to think about. This is simple, unavoidable, and awful.

Because, like I told the nurse in the recovery room, you can’t argue with cancer.

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