All those summer days as a child, running the neighborhood with the other kids, walking to the drug store with a few pennies to buy candy, riding bikes to the corn fields and back to visit the horses nearby . . . and now skin cancer. Not once, not twice, but three surgeries in. I don’t believe for a minute that I’m done with this.
In high school, laying out in the sun, slathered with baby oil, buying a sun lamp at the dermatologist’s urging to help with acne . . .
Then in college, working one summer in the cornfields, wearing bikini tops and bandannas over our hair, getting oh so brown . . .
Then two summers selling books door to door, wearing red hot pants in California and then Ohio while my long legs turned a toasty tan . . .
Then a study abroad in Venezuela in January, summer south of the equator, an afternoon on the beach with no hat and later, second degree burns on my face that turned my skin green and then purple and then turned into water blisters that peeled off, exposing red raw skin. I couldn’t even student teach. I would’ve scared the kids.
Then teaching for ten years with summers off, spending time outside daily, taking students to Mexico and coming back as tan as I’d ever been in my life.
Then growing gardens, putting the playpens on the deck so we could all enjoy the summer days . . .
Somewhere in there sunscreen was invented and people were warned about too much sun exposure. I started wearing a hat to soccer games.
When my kids didn’t want to wear sunscreen, I’d point to the moles on my arms and say, “Do you want to end up like me?” It worked every time.
Melanoma on my lower leg in 2020, basal cell carcinoma in my cleavage the same year, lots of little things frozen off my face at the hair line at every visit, then nodular basal cell carcinoma on my upper eyelid, a place where no bandage would stay in place. I’ve been walking around for two weeks with a glob of goo on my wound, not noticeable under my hat.
A hat in each car, which goes on my head the minute I step out the driver’s side door.
Every bit of sun exposure accumulates, and I’m as filled up as I can be. I live in one of the sunniest states in the union and hope to live here a lot longer. That means diligence, no more shorts at live music events, no more sleeveless tops, no more showing off tan legs. I’m covered up, looking a bit ridiculous, but oh well. I’ve got no more chances with skin cancer. It is out to get me now. I must stay alert. Every bump, mole and spot must be checked and checked again.
Whoever thought a colorless bump on my eyelid would turn out to be cancerous? Even the physician’s assistant didn’t think so.
“Please biopsy it anyway,” I insisted.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 