ON THE NOSE

My nose looks like Bozo the Clown contracted the plague. I cringe as I look in the mirror.

My dermatologist discovers pre-cancerous lesions on my nose. She prescribes chemotherapy cream.

“At least,” she comforts me, “it’s better than developing skin cancer.”

My poor nose immediately retaliates by peeling, blistering, bleeding, and itching like I fell into a patch of poison ivy. The only thing I’m allowed to apply to my schnoz is Vaseline.

Great, now my nose will shine like Rudolph’s.

“Those symptoms sound ominously like an STD,” one son quips.

One poor workman shows up early before I have coated my nose with several layers of makeup. He jumps back and blanches when I open the door.

“It’s better than developing skin cancer,” my son, the doctor, reminds me when I begin whining.

I know, I think, but it still hurts.

“At least you can wear a mask,” my son offers as consolation. For once, being in the midst of a pandemic is a small blessing. The mask makes my nose feel like it is a walnut that a particularly energetic squirrel is trying to crack.

“Keep your face out of the sun,” my dermatologist warned. It is fall in Arizona and the outdoors beckon. Sunscreen feels like I’ve dipped my nose into a volcano. I will have to resort to hats. I hate hats.

“You look like a homeless person,” one woman informs me when I show up with my hair tucked into a baseball cap.

Big, floppy hats make me look like a toadstool.

I buy several hats, hoping one might flatter me. I look like a child dressing up for a tea party. I stomp on one and toss it in the trash.

I know I am lucky. My doctor caught it early. This will hopefully keep me from developing skin cancer.

But it still hurts.

© Susan Luzader 2021