THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE JUNE 27, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.
As of last Thursday, the days are officially getting shorter. I know, let’s not dwell on that too long. There’s plenty of summer left to live—water fights, grill outs, twilight evenings when the air is so soft it feels magical and time stands still. Also sunshine—loads and loads of UVA and UVB rays drenching our skin for hours on end, while we play, work and leisure.
As we celebrate summer and because too much sunshine in our lives is actually bad for us, I bring a cautionary tale, one with pain and fear, but a very happy sunshiney continuation.
Eighteen years ago in June I turned 18 years old in a hospital bed in Santa Monica, California. I was there alone except for the nursing staff and doctors on their daily rounds at John Wayne Cancer Center.
Just finishing the third day of my third round of intense biochemotherapy, I felt miserable. My hair was gone, the right side of my face slowly regaining feeling, control, not a picture of health. Health had evaded me for the previous 4 months. Surgery had invaded my face and neck.
But they brought me a birthday cake anyway, and sang a surprisingly in-key rendition of the birthday song. I felt loved, and thought, what if this is the last birthday song I receive?
The question was a valid one. As a recent high school graduate, I was battling Stage III melanoma, skin cancer, not the friendly one. I had had many numbers thrown my way since the diagnosis in February, but the one that stuck out the most was my odds for living. 50/50. A coin flip. So at 17 years old, I was contemplating the meaning(s) of life in a whole different way from my peers. I grew up suddenly in a few short months.
When I mention this part of my life, I often get asked if I sought the sun through tanning oils, tanning beds, a pool side chaise lounge. The answer isn’t definitively no. I wore sunscreen and I loved the sun. It was abundant in our Southern California backyard and beach trips.
I recall a particularly bad sunburn when I was about 9 years old. My brother and I had been Boogie boarding all day long, our newfound summer obsession. Later that evening, our skin came awake as the skin cells started dying. Second degree sunburn was, as I would come to find, almost as miserable as chemotherapy, almost.
Sunburns as children are a significant contribution to the likelihood that grown children will have melanoma later in life. After that day at the beach, our mandated swimming uniform consisted of a T-shirt over our swimsuit, no matter what. Mom and Dad’s No. 1 rule.
Still cancer found me. Thankfully it hasn’t found my brother. I know my own strength better than I know his.
The difference I believe falls in the nuances of our lives. Sunscreened, we both played soccer year-round under the Southern Californian ozone hole. We eventually found that yes, melanoma does run in our family when dad found one on his forearm (the driver’s side) 15 years after my diagnosis.
But I had 16 years worth of exposed skin during those California years. It didn’t know winter. My skin, full of displastic nevi (new moles pop up everyday), was always more susceptible. So much so, that once, at 14, I had 40 moles removed off my back in one sitting as a precaution. Still cancer found me. It may again.
My last treatment occurred in July 2000. I wear sunscreen pretty religiously and have moles annually removed at almost every dermatology visit. I still love the sun. I also respect it.
So as days get shorter, let us remember that our days are short. Take care of your skin (and your kid’s) and your body, soak up the memories of this summer, and live. That’s my plan.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 