Ten years ago, on October 28, 1999, I heard some of the sweetest words in the world:
"Good news, Kara, we got all of it."
The doctor was referring to my Stage 1 melanoma on my right forearm. I'd had a mole there since I was about 12, and shortly after moving to San Diego (the first time) in June of '99 I noticed the mole began to change from brown to more of a purplish color.
I made an appointment with BigHMO, only to have my primary care physician tell me, "We'll keep an eye on it, it doesn't look like anything."
My mouth hung open. Red hair? Check. Fair skin? Check. Mole rapidly changing color in a short amount of time? Check.
Like hell I was leaving the appointment without a Derm referral.
So I sat in that room and refused to leave until the doctor conceded. She did, and I had a biopsy done a couple of days later by Derm. Then I got the call, saying, "It's malignant."
That was October 27, 1999. I did pretty okay on the English section of my SATs, and had a grasp of basic Latin, so I was pretty sure the "mal" prefix meant bad.
I took notes through the tears, knowing my mother, an RN who lives in NJ, would want all the details.
Stage 1.
30 mm.
Malignant Melanoma.
(When life gives you lemons, right? I say add vodka and make a martini!)
One week later, I was on an operating table, with my mom next to me, talking shop with the surgeon in San Diego. (Nothing like moving 3,000 miles away from home only to be hit with cancer 5 months later.)
I watched the surgeon cut a diamond incision on my right forearm (they let me stay awake and see it all). Since the skin's the biggest organ, and melanoma spread's like a bitch once it takes hold, they took a pretty big swatch of skin. My scar's a good 4 inches long.
That Friday, my mom packed my car for a trip to Catalina to take our minds off things as we waited for the results. We got in the car, and I realized I'd forgotten our water bottles. I ran back up to the apartment, and heard the phone ringing as I unlocked the front door.
"Good news, Kara, we got all of it."
As I got back into the car, sobbing, my mom just looked at me. I told her what the doctor said, and we both cheered.
We drove to Long Beach, met my BFF Michael, and headed over to Catalina for the weekend. It was a good trip, indeed.
In the weeks and months after the surgery, I'd be out and complete strangers would ask, "Where'd you get that? What happened?" and point to my arm. Me? I'd lie and tell 'em a shark bit me while I was surfing.
(Hey, if you're bold enough to ask a perfect stranger...)
Epilogue I: Melanoma's a bitch, and once it starts spreading it can all go downhill pretty quickly. I had a scare in 2006, when they thought a mass behind my left eye. It was 1 mm from my left optic nerve, so if it grew at all or shifted, I'd be blind. The docs down at UPenn called it a medical anomoly. They thought it was my melanoma metastasizing, but turns out it was just a benign mass. *Whew*
Epilogue II: I always get the same response from people when the topic comes up: "Oh, you had skin cancer? That's not so bad. Could've been worse, like breast or colon cancer." Um, sorry my cancer wasn't bad enough for you?
Thanksgiving's a special time of year, full of family, friends, and food. Most importantly, we count our blessings, especially the ones that have to do with crazy family members inviting us over for food.
