Got a note from Nancy on Tuesday. Her sister-in-law’s melanoma has come back. She wrote, “Within a few days, she got a diagnosis that none of us wanted to hear. The melanoma was back. It had spread to her brain and lungs. The prognosis is very grim.”
I caught my breath. And said a long prayer for her sister-in-law. And her whole family.
It’s the third note like that I’ve received in as many weeks.
There but for the grace of God go I.
Yes, I am a melanoma survivor. But my survival isn’t’ a story of great struggle. It’s one of early detection. I’d be dead if I hadn’t been persistent and taken control of my own medical care.
Instead, I’ve been given 13 more years of life. Thirteen lucky years.
In 1999, I attended a cartoonist convention. A fellow cartoonist had been diagnosed with melanoma. As I spoke to him, I looked at the moles on my arm and felt a knot in my stomach. It had been at least six years since I had been screened. And as far as I knew, melanoma was an Italian lounge singer.
So I did what most people do: I picked a dermatologist from the phone book (remember those?).
The doc was a nice enough man. But I could see his eyes glaze over when he looked at the moles on my back. It was like he was staring at the stars in the sky. I knew he wasn’t focusing on just one.
So I paid my $45 (it was 1999) and moved on.
But I still had the knot in my stomach.
I then went to my primary care doctor. He saw one that looked a little weird (a scientific term) and did a punch biopsy. A punch biopsy is where a small part of the mole is “punched” out and studied under a microscope. The only way a pathologist can know a mole is a melanoma is when it is looked at his way. The pathology report came back and said my mole was dysplastic. I had NO idea what dysplastic was and thought it was like “paper or dysplastic.” But what it really meant was that some of the cells were changing. On a seriousness scale of 1 to 10, it was a 6.
I still had the knot in my stomach.
So I went to another dermatologist. He didn’t see anything that really worried him but said if I wanted anything off, I could go see a plastic surgeon. He handed me his card and I filed it away.
I still had the knot in my stomach.
Two months later, my wife told me, “Go see the plastic surgeon. Now” And I did. (her footprint is still on my butt.) Dr. Kenneth Barraza took one look at my back and went ashen. (I want to play poker with him.) “That one has to come off immediately.” It was the mole that had been previously biopsied. He did a minor surgical procedure where he removed the mole and stitched it up. The pathology report came back saying the previously dysplastic mole was now a melanoma in situ. I panicked.
I thought “in situ” meant “by coffin.”
But what it really means is “in place.” It’s 100% curable because the melanoma is still growing outward not downward. A melanoma eventually grows downward like a carrot’s tap root and will punch through the dermis layer of your skin. The deeper the cancer cells go, the tougher your odds are. You don’t want it spreading to your lymphatic system, for example.
I, of course, freaked out. “Skin me,” I said to him. “I want them all off.”
Not practical. Dr. Barraza doesn’t use a potato peeler. But he did start cutting off six to seven of my worst-looking moles every six months. They all came back severely dysplastic. I have dysplastic nevi (mole) syndrome. My odds of a getting a melanoma are higher than the population’s. (and I am a pasty dirty-blonde with blue eyes.)
In 2001, he was removing only two moles. I was on the table and he saw one out of the corner of his eye that didn’t look good to him. He removed it and on April 17, 2001, I got the call. It was the day of the Mississippi Flag Vote and I had been getting hate calls all day long. At 5:30, the phone rang one more time and Dr. Barraza said, “I’m sorry. You have a malignant melanoma.”
Oh #$%.
Two days later, I was in Baptist Hospital for major surgery. I had a Sentinel Node Biopsy and a good chunk of my back removed. Eight more moles were removed and two lymph nodes (the sentinel nodes) were excised. I was shot with radio active dye and left with a six-inch scar on my back.
But I was alive.
The good news was that they had gotten it all and it wasn’t that deep. Because it was caught early, my chances of 5-year survival were in the 90 percentile range. That’s better than driving in Atlanta. Of course, I wanted to live longer than five years. I had a two-year-old.
My life was changed forever.
If a mole is asymmetrical, has a irregular border, is black, itches, bleeds, is bigger than a pencil eraser, please don’t hesitate to get your doctor to look at it. Find a free screening. Look up a dermatologist. If you have a knot in your stomach, please listen to your gut. And learn about your situation. Being able to carry on a conversation with your doctor is so important. They aren’t Gods. They are people. Busy people. You have to be able to communicate with them. Your life depends on it.
My scar has faded. I’ve had 75 moles removed, three melanomas (two in-situs) and about 60 dysplastic nevi. I’m really not sure why I am still here. But I am. And my mission is to help at least one other have opportunity for life that I was given.
Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to say a prayer for Nancy’s sister-in-law. And that someone will find a cure for this monster soon.
UPDATE: Nancy Jordan (who wrote the note) died yesterday in a terrible car wreck on Highway 49. My prayers go out to her family, friends and students. Life is too damn cruel sometimes. Hang on to those you love and don’t take anything for granted.