I got an unexpected phone call on the way home from work today. It was the dermatologist’s office and I figured they’d say “all good, see you next year.” A spot on my back that hadn’t caused concern last year had decided to stretch itself out enough to warrant a quick biopsy. “It’s a melanoma in situ,” she said and explained what that meant. I was stuck on the word melanoma, which I knew wasn’t a great word to hear. I pulled over, grabbed a pen, and started writing stuff down. There would be more visits to the dermatologist. I had negative margins, but they needed to take additional skin and put in a few stitches, just to make sure they got it all. Six-month checkups and full body scans for the next two years. And the best words: we caught it early and it probably hasn’t moved beyond that mole, but we still need to check.
It’s funny how a single phone call can shift the way you think about your life. Until we moved down to Prescott, I had been to a dermatologist exactly once, for a weird rash on my arm that didn’t want to go away. It turned out to be a laundry soap allergy. Moving to a sunny state, I thought it would be a good idea to get a baseline of where my skin was at, so I got checked out ten years ago, and I was fine. Since then, I’ve been lazy and have gone two other times. I’m not a sun worshipper, I wear sunscreen and hats on a regular basis, I’m indoors for work most days and even when I’m outside in the summer, I’m conscientious about not getting sunburned, so I figured it wasn’t a big deal not to get a skin check every year with a dermatologist.
Growing up in the 1970s, I remember the pina colada scent of Hawaiian Tropic dark tanning oil, with SPF2 or maybe SPF4 if you thought you were going to hang out by the lake all day. My sister and I were redheads, so we skipped the tanning oil and went for the SPF8 and maybe a long-sleeved t-shirt and straw hat when we felt like we were getting a little crispy.
But despite all the protection, we had our fair share of sunburns and peeling noses and shoulders in our youth. The Solarcaine spray would come out and for a few blissful moments, our skin would feel cool and tingly before the heat came roaring back, making it hard to sleep at night until it healed. As teenagers, my best friends and I thought if we got a good burn, it would turn into a nice tan later, so we’d slather ourselves in baby oil, roasting like Thanksgiving turkeys on beach towels in our backyards. After a few days, our fried skin would peel, leaving behind patchy pinkish-white shoulders, noses, and arms, with no dark tan in sight.
I’ve had people tell me I look younger than I am, maybe out of kindness, but also because I was never good at the sport of sun tanning, so I think I escaped some of the wrinkles and age spots that I might have had otherwise. I hoped I’d be one of the lucky ones who would also never have to worry about cancerous moles, but the phone call today reminded me that it can happen to anyone.
When I got done talking with the dermatology office and booking all my follow-up appointments, I sat in my car on the side street and felt a little sad and scared. Cancer is not a word you want to hear, even if the person on the other end of the line is reassuring you that it’s good that it’s been caught early and the likelihood of it spreading anywhere else was minimal. Basically, it’s Stage 0, which is the one time being called a zero is positive.
And then it struck me. I missed my appointment last week, but they called to let me know and worked me in a few days later because of a cancellation. I was going to tell them not to bother, that I’d catch them next year. But luckily, we both made time for me. I can’t imagine the news would have been as good one year later. If you’re reading this and you haven’t had your skin checked lately, please make that appointment. Do it for someone you love. Do it for you.