Wear Sunscreen

 

Wear sunscreen.

Wear. sunscreen.

In 1993, I found a mole on my leg that looked scary. When my doc saw it, he said, “That’s coming off today.” Two weeks later, he called me in, sat down beside me, took my hand, and told me it was a melanoma, that I would be having surgery in a few days to remove a large chunk of tissue from my leg, and further treatment might be needed if the cancer had metastasized.

At that time, I had been divorced a year. I was a single mother of four beloved children whose greatest fear in life matched mine--that something would happen to me and their father would get custody of them. Those days... sitting on the couch... waiting for the surgery... were long and dark.

Post-surgery I was relieved to hear that the first pathologist had been incorrect; the mole was really a basal cell carcinoma, and not much of a threat. I started breathing again.

From that time going forward, I stopped tanning my legs, always wore long pants, began using a face moisturizer with sunblock, and I always wear a hat or cap while outside to protect my face and my eyes. (A colleague was diagnosed with melanoma in his eye. He lived less than a year after his diagnosis.)

Fast forward a few decades….

I generally spend August picking peaches off my tree (eating them, freezing them, giving them away) and writing poetry for the Cascadia Poetics Lab's Postcard Poetry Fest. This August, while I did do those things, I spent some quality time with first my dermatologist, then a surgeon. Because, after months of pleading for a dermatology appointment, I finally got one—and yep, I was right, I had a couple of spots of skin cancer.

One of those spots was a melanoma. For real this time.

Damn.

Damn damn damn.

Hearing the voice of a doctor I didn't know say in a voicemail, "Unfortunately, the lesion on your arm is a melanoma, and you'll need to call and schedule surgery right away...." sunk my heart from my chest to my hiking boots. Thus followed a few more long and dark days.

A week after surgery, when my surgeon called to let me know he’d gotten clear margins, that the cancer had not spread and I was free to “go live my life” as long as I see my dermatologist on a regular basis, I thanked him profusely. Then I ended the call and sobbed in relief for twenty minutes.

So now I have a four-inch scar down my arm (which will fade with time, I know) and the sense of gratitude that wells up when we realize that, shoot, this could have gone in a whole different direction.

I don’t want to be sick or undergoing treatment. I suck at that. I want to be writing, and I want to be out hiking (which, by the way, no doubt led to this skin cancer, as I had been covering everything except my arms. Now I’m wearing UV blocking sleeves whenever I am out in the sun).

My beloved readers… wear sunscreen. Cover up. Take good care. Some cancers, as we know, are preventable. Let’s be smart together, okay?

For your edification (and because we’re getting close to Halloween, ha ha ha), I have posted below photos of my arm immediately post-surgery, then as the healing progressed. Don’t feel compelled to look unless you want to.

Here’s to your good health! Sláinte!

Wednesday

I want to share the events of Wednesday because I don't believe in coincidences. I know that when a certain flawless timing is clearly evident, it is not a random, coincidental occurrence, but rather a reassurance that the Universe is watching over me. Or guardian angels or spirit guides or gods or goddesses or The Almighty, whatever makes you comfortable within the context of your particular faith. I do not promote mine over yours. But I am grateful for the daily guidance offered me by those who have passed over.

So here's what happened:

A week ago—through, again, a chain of events that could only have been orchestrated by powers greater than my own—I discovered a mole—well, actually three new moles, several inches apart, hiding underneath my left breast. I had to stop and think a moment about how long it has been, but oh my gosh, twenty years have come and gone since a chunk of my leg was removed because I was misdiagnosed with malignant melanoma. Turns out it was just squamous cell carcinoma. No big deal, easily treated (May I have some of my leg back, please?), and, within a few years, mostly forgotten. Life changing, though, of course. When your generally affable doctor sits next to you and takes your hand in his before saying, "We think it's melanoma," your life does indeed flash before your eyes. First you see the faces of your children. Then, if you're a writer, you think of all the plot lines you have yet to flesh out.

So when I found these little suckers, I immediately (well, as "immediately" as Kaiser would allow) made an appointment with my primary care physician. I knew that my doc would be as flummoxed as I was about whether these strange gray-ish marks were anything to worry about, but that she'd refer me to a dermatologist and we would go from there. Couldn't wait.

On Tuesday, I arranged a sub with my co-worker, the lovely and no-nonsense Lisa Brandt, whose job it is to find suitable teachers for my classroom. The week prior, however, when I'd been absent to attend the funeral of an old friend, things hadn't gone well in my classroom, so I decided I would leave the house at the usual time, head over to school, make sure the sub had everything she or he needed, then stop by Coco's for a cup of coffee before traveling on to the dreaded but necessary doc appointment.

In reality, here's what actually transpired: When I walked out at 7:00a.m. to go to work, Cloud's battery was dead. (Cloud being my 2003 Ford Ranger. I love her... but... she is getting up there in age.) I popped the hood, tapped on the battery terminals like we used to do with Mom's Oldsmobile (even though I could see that there was no corrosion), and when that remedy didn't work, I went back inside and called the auto club. While I waited, I called Lisa, who had my sub call me, whom I spoke with briefly to make sure everything was good, and just after that call Pedro showed up for the rescue.

"It's the battery or the alternator," he said. "Let it run for 45 minutes to give it a charge, but I would strongly recommend you have it looked at today so you aren't inconvenienced again." Good man. I obeyed, letting it run while I wrote out checks, then I drove around doing errands until it was time for my appointment, which went exactly as I'd expected. Thirty minutes later I was walking back out to the parking lot with an appointment slip in my hand: 3:15pm, Halloween Day. Can't wait.

Here's the cool part: I drove home, changed my clothes, threw the Trek in the back of the truck, drove to Big O (the one in Rancho Cucamonga on Archibald just north of Eighth, where Jim and John manage to keep my wheels rolling in the nicest fashion without ever ripping me off), dropped off the truck and rode home on the bike. As I hefted the bike in through the front door, my phone rang. Antonio at Big O was calling to let me know it was just the battery, they'd dropped in a new one, and Cloud was ready to come home. I took a long drink of water, rolled back out the door, and went to pick up my truck.

There were two things I wanted most to do on that stressful doctor day to re-focus, re-center myself. One was take a long bike ride (mission accomplished!), and the other was to take Sgt. Thomas Tibbs on a long walk. I did that as well.

See, if the battery had gone dead on a day I had to be at work, it would have caused all manner of inconvenience for me (because I'm never, ever late for work), for Lisa, who would have had to scramble around to find someone to sit with my first period class until I arrived, and for my students, who would probably have had to just sit with nothing to do as they waited for me to arrive. But... timing is everything. Thank you again, my guardian angels, my guides. Oh, you know who you are.