Procrastination has its downsides
...and, some recommended reading from The Dial Press
TW: This post discusses skin cancer.
Good morning! And thank you for joining me today.
As I have begun spending more time outside with my animals and my garden this season, I am having trouble balancing my love of the sun with my desire to avoid more skin cancer. Yes, I said more.
Why do I so love the things that hurt me? I “relax” by working with large, reactive animals who have, in our history together, given me concussions, dislocated my joints, and provided countless bruises, yet I keep coming back. My favorite meals are the ones that are so spicy they make me cry. My favorite feeling is the sun warm on my face.
I sunburn easily and, in all seriousness, have long been careful about sun protection. I am also relatively young to be encountering these types of issues. But in October, I had two spots of basal cell carcinoma excised. One of them, at my hairline, was so large and in such an awkward place that the first surgeon I was referred to— who, in our expensive, less-than-five-minute consultation, frightened me by telling me the cancer’s roots might be growing into my brain by then— wanted to admit me to the hospital, knock me out, and perform a skin graft from my thigh, for a grand total of $7500. Admittedly, the spot was so big at that point that I was considering counting it as a dependent on my taxes, but that reaction still seemed extreme. Fortunately, I got a second opinion from a Mohs surgeon who was able to remove both lesions in-office for less than a third of the price the first surgeon wanted to charge for removing one. So the experience was much better than it could have been, but still not great. Because I have a condition which makes anesthetic wear off quickly, I felt every stitch during the first, smaller surgery, and the cauterization made me see stars. For the second surgery a week later, I realized I could just ask for more anesthetic, and I did so, shamelessly.
For a while, a quarter of the top of my head was shaved bald as a baseball, with over 3” of stitches going across my hairline and 2” going up, forming an upside-down T. I have no feeling now in the top left half of my scalp, and perhaps never will.
The good news is that the cancer, which was already of the least concerning type, is gone, and my last skin check was clear. My hair has now grown back to the point where it looks like I cut bangs across half my forehead one day after a series of questionable, emotion-driven decisions, but ran out of the nerve to do the other half. It’s almost gotten long enough for me to do something with it. Sometimes I can even part my often-uncooperative hair in a way that covers it.
The main thing I learned from this experience is that I need to take care of my problems while they’re still small enough to handle. It would have been far less traumatic to address the hairline spot, which I knew from the beginning was suspicious, when it was only the size of a pencil eraser. This is why I’m sharing this story with you.
Since October, I’ve been trying to approach every problem in my life this way. If there’s something that can be done now, I try to do it. If “past me” can save “future me” some pain, she definitely should. And I’ve been telling my loved ones, if you have any weird spots on your skin, go get checked out. Don’t wait. Take care of it as soon as you’re able. Trust me on this. It took four months just to get in to see the dermatologist to get the referral to a surgeon. That’s a long time when something malicious is growing, on top of the time you’ve already waited.
That leads me to today’s poem. Cancers aren’t exactly a new issue. I once read an article on CNN’s website about how cancer cells had been discovered in million+-year-old human fossils. It seems researchers had previously assumed that certain cancers didn’t exist so long ago. One of the scientists interviewed for the article said, because of the discovery, “We know the capacity for malignancy is ancient.” How could I resist writing a poem after reading something like that?
The Capacity for Malignancy is Ancient The woman on the gallery floor says yes when I ask if I can photograph the fossil of Protorohippus venticolum that has the plaque naming it “The Dawn of Horses.” It’s actually the only replica we have in the store, she says, and shows me photographs of the original, which has the same black horse shape, black splintered ribs, nestled among prehistoric fish in the sandy rock. His tail is missing, she says, but it might just be under the fish. How the ancestor of horses ended up on a lake bottom is a mystery as complex as ours. On Facebook my friend posts the announcement that at least one type of cancer existed in humans nearly two million years ago, that the bone of a foot has been discovered with the same cells as those that make us sick. This way, we can confirm that death doesn’t need to evolve. I still remember the spiral of tissue from the breast biopsy floating in the fluid in the little jar, how I couldn’t lift a gallon of milk or I’d start to bleed. I am wearing the necklace that belonged to my maternal grandmother, who died and took her cancer with her when she was 24. We wear fragile bodies, and now it would seem that they have always known how to turn against us, though there are so many other kinds of endings we could find. No matter where we go, we walk on bones. The gallery is air conditioned and clinical, and its most stunning fossil is the only one that’s a replica, a horse that is dog-sized and has toes instead of hooves. The way it lies on its side reminds me of the horse I had to euthanize because of tumors. The man with a backhoe dug a ramp into a grave. I led the horse to the bottom and the vet let him down in stages. We watched him die to make sure he wouldn’t know that he was being buried. There used to be a mound over him, but now there is nothing. I left his halter on so that whoever finds him will understand that he was loved.
If you’d like, please join me now for a moment of reflection. And please share your thoughts in the comments section for this post.
What’s something you’ve learned the hard way that you wish more people knew?
What is your favorite thing that is “bad” for you?
In other news, one of the (many) cool things about being a Dial Press author is that I get to read the new releases. This perk makes my reading little heart so happy. Lately I've enjoyed and recommend The Tell by Amy Griffin (who is from a well known family in my hometown) and Isola by Allegra Goodman. The Tell is a memoir that asks what happens when the things we hide from ourselves suddenly come to light, and I was engrossed by the story, which drew me in even more because so much of it was familiar. Isola is a well-written historical novel based on a true story about a woman who is stranded on an uninhabited northern island by her corrupt guardian, who, before he strands her, steals everything she owns. Not only must she learn to fish and to protect herself from polar bears, she must learn how to keep going when it seems like there’s no good reason to survive.
Next on my reading list is A Little Daylight Left by Sarah Kay, and I’m really looking forward to it.
That’s all I’ve got for you this week. I really appreciate the time you’ve spent here with me today. Please take good care of yourselves and each other!
I’ll see you next time.
*“The Capacity for Malignancy is Ancient” was first published in Rust & Moth and is included in the book Maps of Injury, available through Sundress Publications.
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Loved your piece in today’s rattle.