The Devil is Growing On My Head

Esther’s huge cancer on her scalp.

(Clinical photographs and videos used by Esther’s permission.)

An impoverished, wiry old woman with a scowl on her face warily shuffled into the exam room. She had a cloth covering over her head, and with her entrance into the room came the aroma of death. Once you have smelled a cancer growing out of someone’s skin before, you never forget it. They all smell the same. Awful. Of festering, infected, rotten flesh. She had to be urged to take off the cloth. A pus-soaked gauze wrap became visible, and she howled in pain as a nurse removed it over the sink, blood drips quickly accumulating in the sink. She pointed to the cancer, and said, “The devil is growing on my head.”

Esther, like many people with fungating cancers, was socially isolated. People simply don’t want to be around the smell. Her family has never come to care for her or visit her. It was clear from the look on her face and her body posture that she didn’t trust anybody. We tried to explain in broad strokes our plan to remove the cancer, and I believe that she agreed only out of desperation.

The tumor before excision.

The cranial bone has been burred and chiseled to remove any remaining cancer.

We took her to the operating room and excised the tumor and burred down and chiseled the outer layer of the cranial bone. We then covered this with the latissimus muscle, and tunneled the vascular pedicle behind her ear allowing us to attach the blood supply using microvascular anastomoses to vessels in the neck. Then we skin grafted on top of the muscle.

The latissimus muscle dissected free.

The latissimus muscle sewn into place.

Skin graft covering the muscle.

The defect, unfortunately was too big for the muscle, so we have been doing dressing changes near her forehead for a few weeks, after which time we’ll skin graft the rest.

The wound after dressing changes.

(Photograph used by Esther’s permission.)

At first, she was perhaps the most verbally and physically belligerent patient I have ever met, striking myself and nurses, yelling at others, and refusing recommended care. However, I think that as she learned to trust our intentions and desire to help her, she has softened remarkably, even to the point of inviting and requesting the presence of others. Visits from Rachel and the kids and gifts of food elicit seemingly miraculous smiles.

Rachel and the boys visiting Esther.

Esther’s beautiful smile.

The hospital staff has been noticing her dramatic turn toward more joyful interactions as well. After a dressing change recently, the surgical staff asked her to dance with them, and she got out of her wheelchair and shuffled around to all of our amazement and delight!

Esther dancing!

The Apostle Paul, speaking of his pre-conversion spiritual state, exclaimed, “Who will deliver me from this body of death?!” Paul is referring to sin in our lives, that like Esther’s cancer, eats us alive, and kills us from within. Not only that, it alienates us from all those around us (like Esther’s foul smelling cancer). We are hopelessly without a cure. It takes radical surgery to remove this cancer of our souls. Paul’s answer to his rhetorical question is Jesus Christ, the man who claimed to be God. In the mystery of the atonement on the cross, for those who will repent of their sin, and give their allegiance to a new King, the cancer is removed, the wound is healed, the sinner is set free. Everyone born of Adam, which is all of us, have this ugly malignancy that will kill us. Jesus, the Great Physician, the Merciful Surgeon, stands ready to deliver us all. The invitation is open. Are you desperate enough, like Esther, to submit to the knife? Are you ready for a new Master?

We are post-Easter, post-Resurrection. Because of Jesus, we are here, serving in His Great Name. Thank you for your support and prayers on our behalf. We consider ourselves so privileged to be here!

For the King,

Niles, Rachel, Marit, Sonja, Haakon, Gunnar, Kier, and Bump (due July 2023)