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Kitties, Doors and Napalm. Not related. Sort of.

So, funny thing about blathering on about that ONE thing you can shove in everyone’s face about what you DON’T have in your ongoing journey in chronic disease and illness…and it turns right back to bite you in the proverbial ass.

Right. In. The. Ass.

So, if you were to scroll back a blog post, you’ll understand. “It Had to Happen…”

I went last Wednesday to my first dermatologist’s appointment for my psoriasis. I was hoping to have some help with my prescriptions and, without any real high hopes, answers as to what might be the origin of my ailment.

I entered the clinic through the front door.

I left the clinic through Door #1.

I did *not* get answers for what causes my psoriasis.

I *did* get stronger prescriptions for my scalp and my hands as I’m still moderate enough that internal medications are not required. *jazzhands*

“Do I keep using the steroid on my forehead? ‘Cuz it kind of burns,” I asked her. She knew her shit, but like most specialists, I’d had to keep refocusing her attention on the plethora of areas that had skin falling off.

She came up in to my face, peering at the lesion on my forehead and with that mom-like voice (the one I’ve perfected for my five kids and use regularly) asked me In. That. Tone.


“How long have you had that?” her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Oh. Shit.

“I….uh…(quick, think of a lie because someone you don’t even know told you on a stupid Facebook post to get the feckin’ thing checked for…Oh. Gawd.)…almost two years?”

*shifty eyes*

“It’s a squamous carcinoma. I’m so sorry. I have to take that off immediately before it spreads into deeper layers.” Paraphrasing. She’d used epithelial something-or-other words…

Because, going in for your burning, Hounds of Hell burning, skin falling off from psoriasis isn’t enough…you must also get slapped in the face with a bottle of liquid nitrogen because you have skin cancer.

“It’s going to sting.” 


“It will probably burn a little.”

Uh, okay…just do it.

“Are you ready? It might hurt…”

Why the hell does she keep changing the pain levels like that….


It felt like fucking Napalm, people of the interwebs.

Three agonizingly long blasts of liquid nitrogen to kill the cancer left me with a burn the likes of which I’ve never seen. Which was also on top of a second head goose egg because, well, what else will your head do to defend itself from fucking NAPALM on your skin?!?!?!

My Evil Sidekick Minion.
My Evil Sidekick Minion.


I named my second head with a side of third degree burn, Studley.

Name your fears, people…and I sure as shit guarantee you it will be like some kind of therapy. Not quite psych-level, but certainly above bubble wrap.

So. Studley and I still had to do All The Things for Yule. So, we did. I went to my gingers’ school play with a second head with a side of blister and got through it. I finished my shopping and wrapping, because I could. I’ve taken pictures of me and Studley because…well…I don’t really know why I bombard my friends with pictures they’ll see before their second cuppa’joe. *shrugs* It’s my life, and I matter. And, Tyenol. A lot of fucking Tylenol.

An important aside: Three years ago today I’d had a heart attack. I thought I’d been having an asthma attack for two days and felt I’d had a few minutes/hours to kill three days before Christmas to spend in a clinic so for shits’n’giggles I went to get it checked.

Moral of the story: take the time to #selfcare or by the gods I will hunt you down and give you your comeuppance before your inattentiveness leads to a cessation of cellular activity. *finger waggle*

This is my mantra. And, as I reflect upon the ending of this year, I realize that next year is going to have to bring in some serious changes for “Me.” I’ve chosen a new virtue/thew to study and it’s a doozy, not in the “meaning”, per se…but in its very “definition.” I know, having spent the last seven years pondering and personifying virtues each year, that already my perception has changed. You’ll have to wait until the calendar New Year to find out.

Timid little fire cat, Trillium
Timid little fire cat, Trillium

Sooooooooooo…I’ve started my “Me.” by volunteering as a foster mum for The Ottawa Stray Cat Rescue.

It’s not about adding things to my plate. It’s about “Me.” recognizing that some of the shit on my proerbial plate belongs on your proverbial plate and, thusly, I’m taking my totally proverbial spork and shoving it off.

Because, I can.

It’s been quite the year. I’m growing excited at the thought of my 2015 being the year that I “Reclaim The Me.”


Studley is now starting to heal and will soon fade away into my memory. The steroids and new shampoo seems to be not giving me chemical burns and are keeping the skin doing the staying of the on…

Small things.

Three years ago taught me that.


Merry Yuletide season, lovely peeps. xoxo

From our blind, half-deaf rescue, own companion.
From our blind, half-deaf rescue, Rose…my own companion.

1 Comment

  1. Pingback:Geekdom of Skin | Lupus Interrupted

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