A month or so ago, my husband stated that i had a new freckle. He said it was a bad sign and I should have it checked out right away. I responded, “it’s a freckle, don’t be paranoid.”
To my dismay, the freckle turned black. My husband was quick to tell me that it must be cancer and I was quick to roll my eyes.
My husband was persistent. In fact, I only went to the dermatologist about the freckle because he annoyed me into it. He literally tried to drive me crazy about this freckle. Not to worry, didn’t work. After all, it’s hard to drive a crazy person crazy.
The biopsy results came back that the freckle was severely atypical. That’s sort of how my life always goes. && that’s when it hit me, this little tiny, seemingly insignificant, freckle was trying to ruin my life. WHY ME, FRECKLE? Why.
They cut out the freckle and the surrounding tissue. My husband said it looked like they cut out a piece of chicken and they sewed me back up. Yes, he stood right over the doctor while she operated. Yes, I did opt for the anti-anxiety meds prior to surgery. I didn’t even realize when they started cutting. Yolo.
My stitches come out Thursday. Until then, I’m a couch potato that can’t stop eating Girl Scout cookies.
Fuck atypical freckles❤️