May is Skin Cancer Awareness Month. Here’s what I have to say about that.
Sometime last year, in the 2020 blur, I realized I had a spot on my scalp, right on my part line, that was red and raised. I picked at it out of habit, which made it scab over, so I picked at it more, and so on. Sometimes I would hardly even notice when I was doing it, but my partner did. He encouraged me to get it checked out, but I put it off, thinking it was probably nothing, that if I just stopped picking at it, it would go away. But of course I didn’t stop, and when my partner emphasized again that I should get it checked out, that it’s simple to do so, I finally listened and put “dermo appt” on my list of things to do.
I first saw my primary care physician about it, strategically parting my hair and awkwardly moving my head around to get the spot in front of computer’s camera so that she could see the culprit in Zoom space. She referred me to a dermatologist, fueled not only because of the difficulty of seeing the spot over cyberspace but also because I have a family history of skin cancer. I made the appointment, went in, showed the spot, and because it was covered by a scab, the dermatologist needed to take a biopsy to see what was going on. She did, and a little over a week later, I got the call with the results. I had basal cell carcinoma. My heart sunk.
Knowing skin cancer is very common, I didn’t totally freak out, but I was still shaky. I asked the messenger, who relayed the information so casually that I wondered how many calls she’d made just like this one, to send me some reputable materials on basal cell carcinoma. I wanted to prevent myself from going down the rabbit hole on Dr. Google that had far too much potential to make things worse. The reading material proved helpful and calming. I learned that basal cell carcinoma is highly treatable and that I am in good company—approximately 2 million Americans hear “You have basal cell carcinoma” each year. Not that I want anyone to hear those words, but it did feel good that I’m far from alone. In that same call I learned I had skin cancer, I made an appointment to get it removed. I didn’t have much time to despair, for treatment was a couple of weeks away.
Since my basal cell carcinoma (which I nicknamed “Basal” for short) was on my scalp, an area with little tissue, the doctor used the Mohs procedure, which basically means they take little by little, examining what they got each time, until they are sure the margins are clear (i.e., the cancerous bits are out). Lucky for me, the first take got it all out. I didn’t even get to the snacks or book I had packed for the procedure, should I have had downtime in between takes. I was oddly disappointed that I didn’t have time to eat my belVitas. But I suppose being cancer-free makes up for that.
We swapped stories and talked about current events as they stitched me up, the occasional unpleasant sound reminding me my skin was being sewn back together. Not a pleasant thought; I tried not to think about it. I left the office with a small piece of gauze taped to my head, promising the doctor and myself I would wear a hat and sunscreen.
How did I get skin cancer? I live in Seattle, colloquially known as rain city, but I’m from Southern California, the land of sunshine. Sun exposure was a part of everyday life. So, it made sense to me that Basal showed up on my part line, for it was almost always exposed (and I wasn’t always good about wearing a hat). Another thing you should know is that I’ve never set foot in a tanning salon or bed. Well, I did set foot in a tanning salon once, but only in the lobby as I accompanied a good friend who wanted to get a tan before her wedding. I didn’t understand why she wanted a tan so badly as to get one artificially and subsequently put herself at risk. But then again, I have, like many others, tried to get my summer tan by basking in the sun, as if that’s much better or safer (for the record, I’m rolling my eyes at myself). I never did it regularly, and always wore sunscreen, but now I think the idea of tanning is silly.
I got Basal removed on April 14, 2021. Today marks five weeks of being cancer-free. In fact, at the time I’m writing this is about when I came home, set my stuff down, checked in with my partner, and placed an ice pack on my head. It’s in the shape of an avocado—the ice pack, not my head—which worked perfectly for covering Basal, or should I say her grave? Bye, Basal!
Later that afternoon, I went to the drug store to pick out all the sunscreens—sticks, sprays, lotions—that now lay in various parts of the house, a constant reminder to slap it on. I also have hats scattered at each doorway leading outside, making it impossible to leave without seeing one, and thinking, “Oh, right, I need a hat.” Going for a 10-minute walk? Wear a hat. Going for a run? Wear a hat? Going for a picnic? Wear a hat. Going for a hike. Wear a hat. You get the idea.
Over a month has passed since I learned I had skin cancer, and I have made good on the promise to myself (and the doctor, but more importantly to myself). I will continue to make good on that promise. Basal is now a scar, a battle wound of skin cancer. When it first started healing, it felt like I had a buzz cut in that area, the hair starting to grow back. Now it’s more like line of lawn that hasn’t been mowed in months. I’m proud of that patch—a small mark of cancer defeated. But it doesn’t change the facts: skin cancer is all too sneaky. And preventable.
Wear your hat and sunscreen. And get that skin checked.
