Kiss Your Miracle

In 2006 my doctor removed a bit of skin cancer from a spot beneath my eye. He guessed it was basal cell cancer, the least serious kind, but the biopsy later showed it was squamous cell cancer, which falls in between basal and melanoma in terms of severity. As I drove home from his office that day, I called my friend Jen. “How do you feel about it?” she asked. “Just add it to the list,” I said dejectedly. In a month’s time my Grandma had died, our IVF cycle failed, my kitten disappeared, and now this – skin cancer. I remember thinking that God probably wasn’t trying to kick me while I was down, but that’s definitely how it felt. As the weeks passed my face healed, but when I looked in the mirror I would sometimes stare at my skin and wonder when the next spot would appear. I was twenty-nine. If I had a spot removed once a year from now on, what in the world would I look like at fifty? If I already had squamous cell cancer, how old would I be when I got melanoma?

This morning I was back at the dermatologist’s office for a routine check-up. The doctor examined my skin and pronounced me “all-clear.” After my first round of skin cancer, I assumed that regular treatments would forever be a part of my life, that my one little spot was just a preview of more to come. But it’s been three years now and I’m still without any new cancer. I’m not saying I’ll never deal with it again – my fairest-of-the-fair skin and history of sun damage mean the odds are pretty high that I will. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be at the dermatologist’s office every six months, getting new spots of cancer carved out of my skin. I might go another decade without needing any treatment at all, much less treatment for melanoma.

And as I consider that, I’m reminded of a saying my brothers use every now and then: “If possible, avoid hysterical thinking.” When your thoughts, like mine, tend to fall on the side of pessimism more often than optimism, this is very helpful advice.