They tell you from a young age that the little things that separate you from the rest-freckles, birthmarks, scars-aren’t bad at all. They’re what make you unique, and what’s so bad about that? Nothing—most of the time.
But then you get older, and you begin to learn that some of these little distinguishing features, the ones you never thought twice about as a kid, aren’t so harmless after all. In fact, you learn that some of those little marks they call moles can kill you if left unchecked. When you hear that, you don’t feel so special anymore—maybe because your mind is so overwhelmed by thoughts of “cancer, cancer, cancer” that there’s no room for anything else.
It was an ordinary spring day when my dad came home from work, kissed my head in greeting—and stopped. “Just looking,” he said when I questioned him, but something in his voice made me not believe him. And I was proven right when my mom came rushing into my room, saying Dad had mentioned “something weird” on my scalp. She took one look at all the moles covering my fair-skinned head, and said she needed to look online. Meanwhile, I felt like I was drowning, having not realized that those little uneven areas on my head could be so much more. I brought up the ugly word-cancer-in my smallest, shakiest voice at last. Mom said she “didn’t think” that’s what it was—after all, cancer was usually found in just one mole. Of course, when you’re a junior-high girl, “don’t think” isn’t going to stop you from crying yourself to sleep, feeling your life fall away from you.
The sky was grey and cloudy on the day of my doctor’s appointment—like something out of a movie. I wanted nothing more than to drive way from that doctor’s office and never go back, but I went anyway, hoping for some concrete answers. What I got was nothing but more ambiguity, and a trip to the dermatologist in my future. As we drove home, I didn’t even try to stop the tears from falling in front of my mom, who could do virtually nothing to console me. They say that in junior high, everything feels like the end of the world. But on the off chance that they found something in one of my moles, it could very well be the end of my world.
Fortunately, that was not what happened. By the time my appointment with the dermatologist rolled around, I was feeling slightly better—but only slightly. A talk with my dad after that awful doctor’s appointment had put some things in perspective, and I tried to put on a brave face as we entered the clinic. An hour later, we were in the doctor’s office, my head being probed like a slab by a butcher. When I blurted out “Am I going to die?!” I was only half kidding. The doctor gave me and my mom the good news—he didn’t see any problems with my moles for the time being. I walked out of there feeling lighter than I had in days—but somehow I could feel that this wasn’t quite over.
Everyday, people of all ages are diagnosed with melanoma. Just last week, I heard of a high school senior diagnosed, with a fifty-percent chance of needing chemo. They don’t call melanoma a silent giant for nothing-if my dad hadn’t noticed my moles, maybe it really would have turned into something worse. If I had the choice, I would never go through that process again. But then, my choices don’t really belong to me—they belong to God.
Autobiography
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Excellent storyline. I am glad this ended happily. You are correct, cancer is rampant it seems and you never know what diagnose may be determined. The key is that it was caught as most issues are the culprit of mostly one’s decline if not. God is who we answer to, I believe that which is keeping my husband’s stage four cancer at bay.