"Out Damned Spot..."

...thus poor deranged Lady Macbeth, driven utterly potty by contemplating the horror of Duncan's foul murder. One does say 'poor' in a forgiving sort of way, as madness in the face of one's sin must be taken as a mark of - if not repentance as such - then at the least a plain recognition that evil has been done and oneself has been the doer.

But this is not more Bardean exegesis tonight, merely an apposite image for some troubling of the mind as we find it. And no it's not a case of 'More sin Vicar?' we have here. The fret - and there is fret in spades - comes with the confirmation that indeed - as we all already knew - one's aforementioned mole is quite a mal thing.

From last post to this one has had the initial surgery, with something of a teaspoon sized lump excised from the rectorial leg and sent for due pathological analysis. The results are in and they are bloody good for being awful. Yes, it is melanoma but it is but a miserable thin thing - which is splendid - and signs of spread there are none evident as such and as yet.

Purely then on a 'just in case' basis one is to be hauled in once more for a larger lump (one pictures somewhat grimly an ice-cream scoop shaped instrument) to be hewn out and away. They will of course look see if this second slice of leg shows any evidence of disease, not on the whole expecting to find any.

This though then is the rub - briefly back to the Bard once more - and the cause of my fret. The word to come back will be 'No Evidence of Disease' and not, crucially, 'Evidence of No Disease.' The latter they never say; never have and never will. Haven't for near ten years with this sarcoma malarkey [see earlier passim] and won't, in addition, be saying that either about this mal thing.

At least, though, with the sarcoma there was some ready-to-hand nuclear science to zap any residual malignancy possibly lurking near the primary, and even some top-shelf poison with which one could be depth-charged in case the little tinker had set sail for other bodily parts.

With this here melanoma though that, apparently, is not even on the menu. Only the knife, which though a fine thing in itself for tackling the primary is actually a pretty blunt instrument when it comes to mopping up any afters.

So, all right, I am but a little bit cancerous in the way that one (a female one of course only) would be said to be 'a little bit pregnant.' By extension of the analogy, I am not likely to come to full term with this thing - and for that mercy of course great thanks - but there is now another spot that cannot be outed for all my wanting it so.

Don't believe the Bard ever used this image - though am perfectly prepared to be corrected - but it is as if one were another Damocles with not one but now two swords hanging by slender threads over his aching head.