“There’s a hole in my head!” Dad groused, fingering his newly-stitchless scalp.  “Why did Hinckley leave a hole in my head?”  I examined Dad’s new scar, which curved over eight inches of wispy-haired scalp.  The scar centered on a remaining scab, where the initial cancer had been scooped deeply out.  I reassured him that his head looked fine, that there was no open wound, that what he felt as a hole was just a scab.  “Why didn’t he stitch the skin together so there isn’t a hole in my head?”  When the scab falls out, I suggested, I was sure he would see how neatly sutured the whole incision was.  “But there’s a hole in my head.”  Mom scowled and rolled her eyes, and I let the matter go.  I would not be able convince him there was not a hole in his head, and did not want to argue.  Maybe the surgeon did leave a hole in Dad’s head—what could I do about it other than watch for both healing and infection?  Continue reading →