I Am Horny

I have a lump on my head. It is fairly large and lives on my forehead, about an inch from the hairline. I have no idea how long it has been there, sometime between birth and today, what trauma (if any) caused it, and whether or not it has grown since it first appeared.

You would think that I would know all of these things. You would think that I would have called it to the attention of a doctor somewhere along the line. But you would be wrong.

A doctor did notice it recently, and expressed concern. He thought it might be a tumor. He ordered x-rays, and sent me to a head and neck surgeon. There must be a lot of people having head and neck surgery because it took four months to get an appointment.

Today was D-Day. I had collected the original x-rays from the hospital for his edification and enjoyment, and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to the wilds of beautiful Marin County to see the Wizard of Heads & Necks.

He entered talking. I am normally the one who, once started, cannot be stopped, the one who walks away and leaves my mouth running. I was totally outclassed by this guy, who had the ability to put together more words, faster, than anyone I have ever known except maybe tobacco auctioneers.

He might want to cut back on his espresso consumption or something.

He asked if it bothered me. Well, I don't look like a unicorn or anything (yet,) but still, it shouldn't be there. The movie, Alien, comes to mind, not anybody's best look.

He asked about relatives who have had cancer. I started to list them, but he lost interest and started a new topic.

I tried to think of what might actually enthrall him. Besides the sound of his own voice, I couldn't think of anything.

Apparently, it is bone, growing outward. The medical term is exostpsis, which looks as if it's missing a vowel or two. It is not menacing my brain at this time, but should be removed lest it change course and become aggressive.

Doctor Head & Neck gave me options. He could make incisions above and below it and drill the bone. I believe he said he would file it down. It sounded a lot like carpentry. There would be a scar. Was that a problem?

Well, yeah. It might look dashing, like a lady pirate, but I would prefer not to have a scar on my face. The other option, we'll call them A & B, would be more extensive and would require general anesthesia.

He would make an incision across the top of my head from ear to ear, pull the skin down, and do his woodworking thing on the bony knob, then pull the skin up and sew me together again.

Da da. Presto change-o. Mandrake the magician lives.



I remarked that Option B sounded a bit drastic. He smiled, but resisted the urge to lick his chops at the thought of all that cutting, drilling and sanding he would be licensed to do inside my head.

I said that it sounded a lot like a facelift, and that if I was going to go through all that, there ought to be some cosmetic benefit as well.

"Oh, there is," he said. ""You won't have a visible scar."

I was thinking of something a little more significant than that. Like looking 20 years younger. Getting rid of the bump on my forehead would just be collateral damage control.

He handed me a magnifying mirror and pointed out a horizontal wrinkle on my forehead. He seemed overjoyed that it was there because he could bury the scar in it. For some reason, he expected that its presence would elate me, too.

I asked if we could just watch it for a while and see if it keeps growing. He assured me that he was there to help.

We agreed to measure my bony protuberance again in three months.

If I start to look like Michelangelo's horned Moses, I will take that as a sign from God that it needs to be surgically removed. But until then, my anarchic hair provides pretty good camouflage.