vanity...

About this time on Wednesday, I was putting on a brave attitude.

One of the two facial moles which I've had all my life had been determined by my new dermatologist to be a possible hazard to my health.

All I could think of was the loss of self.

It was not the only one taken, but it was the one most important to me.

During the night I was awakened by wetness of blood on my pillow.

That lone mole was seeping, necessitating a second trip to Georgia Skin & Cancer Clinic.

This time, electric cauterization was used to close off its blood vessels.

That was a very different smell from the chemical staunching agent.

I was a bit sadder about the potential loss of that mole.

Today, about another 24 hours later, I am even sadder.

That red triangle around my poor burnt mole speaks volumes about its unhappiness, and my own.

I've spoken with Andew, my British friend in Virginia, about it.

His wife had one taken off, in about the same place on her face, three months ago. 

His brother died of skin cancer three years ago, from a mole gone bad that went internal and poisoned his liver and other organs.

I understand about that, having had a scare with a mole on my chest forty years ago, when I was in grad school at FSU.

None of that logic and science can help me right now.

I need to know how I will find me in the mirror, when my face becomes asymmetrical from the loss of one of the moles that mark me as myself.

I'm tired of marking my birthdays with medical procedures.

How will I adapt to a new face?

Can I?