I grew up in the sunshine of the 50s and 60s. Which means I lathered Coppertone Tanning Lotion or baby oil on my lithe body to draw in the sun’s rays. I danced and played in the brightness of my youth with no thought to days ahead when sunblock and skin cancer were common words.
And I should know.
My third melanoma will be removed today. The lifesaving and newly developed Mohs surgery will remove and test layers of skin, making sure no cancer cells remain before stitching up my forearm. The last surgery on my forehead for a second basal cell carcinoma required three cuts before they were satisfied. The other two melanomas were on my left leg; the first occurred during a traumatic time of divorce. The second one required skin graft surgery right before 100 guests walked through the door for my daughter’s wedding taking place in our home. Immediately after the surgery I had to limp to the vet’s office to put down my sidekick and constant couch companion of 14 years, a Pom-A-Poo named Mocha.
But that’s another story.
I have all the pre-existing factors for skin cancer: I’m blonde, blue-eyed, with fair skin which burns instead of tans, and I’m plagued with many moles on my body which I’ve systematically been removing for decades. I blame my forebears for this; many generations of fair-skinned ancestors from France, Scandinavia, England, Ireland and Germany combined to pass on these tendencies. As an infant, I was born with a prominent dark brown mole on my forehead that was removed with dry ice (they no longer do this procedure). When I was an adult, my mother told me that these moles tend to be precursors to skin cancer. I’ve learned to watch the scar from that early intervention; two surgeries later, I had no idea that cancer often develops in scars.
As for my mother, she had perfect skin her entire life—a peaches and cream complexion. Even though she grew up on a farm, she was an inside girl. Never do I remember a time when she laid out, worked in the yard or stayed outside in the sun for any length of time.
But me—I’m drawn to the light as a moth to a lantern. I fear I’d wither up and die without the sun. My moods change with the seasons and on a rainy day, I turn on all the lights in my home and open wide the curtains to lift my spirit. I even bought a Happy Light and set it up on my desk. I haven’t used it yet. Maybe tomorrow.
I’d rather go out walking to seek my friend on the horizon. In Greek mythology, my deity of choice would be Helios.
When I was a child, our family migrated from the north to the south and landed in Alabama which was close to Florida beaches. One year our family was allowed to visit the coast and stay in an old cabin that had belonged to former governor Bibb Graves. It was late March, and even in the Gulf of Mexico, it was not warm! My siblings and I stayed on the beach and played anyway, on the cloudy day with a constant wind sweeping sand into our eyes. By nighttime I was red as fire and shivering in the log-heated home that creaked with the blustering wind. I remember going to bed and lying under a pile of dusty comforters. I think I even ran a fever as my body fought off the pain of the sunburn. But magically in the morning I was fine, though a little pink, and ran off to play and burn another day.
I’ve learned now that these childhood burns are the cause of most skin cancers.
These days you’ll find me under an umbrella at the beach or our favorite haunt, the lake. I’m lathered down with 50+ SPF sweat-proof sunblock and wearing a sunblock shirt over my bathing suit, and a hat when in direct sun. But hey, I’m out there watching the beauty of the sunrise, relaxing in the noontide or admiring the red-orange glow on the horizon in late afternoon. I continue to participate in the joy of my large family as they frolic in the waves or wave-surf behind our boat.
Even though I take wise precautions, I choose to live instead of worrying about dying.
One time at the beach I studied a young woman walking the shoreline. She was covered—literally—from head to toe in sunblock clothing. All I could see were her eyes peeking out behind sunglasses and layers of presumed safety. I figured she must be suffering from a serious disease and respected her for venturing out anyway. I’ve read about others who hide out at home, curtains drawn as they peeked out at life.
I’d rather die early than live in the dark in seclusion my whole life. So, here’s to life and living in the light.
I hope, as my husband and I head to the surgeon today, that the sun will be shining.