MIPA Workshop Blogs

Is that a spot I see before me?

Erin McClue                                                      

I apply at least three layers of sunscreen every time I visit the beach.  I apply at least one when I leave my house on a sunny day.  And just to be careful, I bring sunscreen with me to apply wherever I go. 

Even with all of this applying, they don’t go away.  The freckles, that is.  Permanent little reminders that point to an almost certain fate (for me). Skin cancer.  It may sound dramatic, but to me it is reality. 

When I was little, and even into my teens, I never thought about death or disease much.  Until one day after school.  Walking into my tropically themed bathroom to get in the shower I noticed it.  A black spot on my arm. I didn’t panic. I thought to myself, “It’s probably just sharpie.”  Until I tried to wash it off. It didn’t go away.   

After further investigation I discovered many more of these small black pen point sized marks on my body.  This discovery led to what I like to call “The Scariest Day of my Life”: my first skin cancer screening.  I hopped in the car, heart thumping, fingers tapping on the dash, completely unprepared for what was to come.

I entered the office with stucco walls and Stepford wife looking receptionists and took a seat, waiting for the no-doubt-Dora-the-Explorer-like expedition of my body that was awaiting me. Without fail, two cheery looking nurses came in.  I wondered, “What are they so happy about?” There is nothing joyful about skin cancer.  Were they truly unaware of the terror running through my veins, and the consequences their news could bring? But they took their little grins and started looking for spots like they were children playing Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Tapping my toes and biting my nails in the cushioned confines of the waiting room, I anticipated their findings.  While sitting anxiously, the first Stepford receptionist graced out from behind her desk and handed me a packet about Melanoma.  I froze.  Unable to move, unable to breath, I just sat there, expecting the worst. 

The second Stepford secretary came into the waiting room and said, “Follow me, sweetheart.”  I wanted to stop and say, “Um…excuse me, but I am not your sweetheart.” But I was so terrified of what she would tell me that I just got up.

I slowly dragged my feet down the back hall hoping to delay the results so I could breathe. With the same overly enthused grin and peppy voice, the nurse said, “We didn’t find anything that points to existing skin cancer, but we found a lot of signs of pre-cancer spots.”  She handed me about ten tubes of SPF 40 sun block. She was clearly oblivious of the arsenal in my handbag and my at home armory.  Even with the super precautions I took before, I am now forced to examine myself for skin cancer twice a month and come back every three months for a screening with the happy nurse parade.

Now don’t misunderstand me…I am oh so relieved that I don’t have skin cancer.  But the reminders burdens over my shoulders every day…literarily.  

I now take even more precautions to prevent skin cancer, but every time I go to the doctor, there are more spots.  Why is it that some people sit in tanning beds and voluntarily bake their bodies, asking for skin cancer, everyday and will never get it? But I, who try my best to prevent it, will most likely end up with it. 

So I ask you to do one simple thing best shown in the immortal words mistakenly attributed to Kurt Vonnegut:  wear sunscreen.