More biopsy results, all good

                I received more good news on the cancer front this week, but not the breast cancer front. Because you really never can have too many kinds of cancer, it has turned out that I also have to be very careful about skin cancer. I’ve known this for years; I started having problems in this area when I was pregnant with Julia. I had Mohs surgery just after Matthew was born. They’re always finding a bad mole or something sketchy going on with my skin.

                I don’t know why. A misspent youth on the Blackfoot River, in the sun?  Those two weeks in Spain that one time? Our honeymoon on the beach at Langebaan? A complete lack of interest in sunscreen way back in the Dark Ages, when I was a kid? Probably all of the above, or I just have a rogue gene somewhere telling my immune system to slack off.  I grew up thinking I was a brown-eyed person who got sunburned once each year, at the beginning of summer, and then was nice and brown until fall. But I’ve learned I am actually a green-eyed person (at the brown end of the green-eyed spectrum) who should have been as careful as a redhead all along.

                But we are staying on top of it. And now that I am a breast cancer survivor, the dermatologist is really being thoughtful. When he biopsies something these days, they call me back right away to let me know what’s up. They know I’m a little paranoid about cancer right now.

                I can happily report that the thingy they took off my face before Christmas turned out to be a pre-cancerous thingy, but hey, they took it off, so it’s all good. And the ugly mole they took off a few days ago was just an ugly mole. Too much information?  Sorry! But I’m still cancer-free!

                The one thing that surprised me about this experience was how very awkward I felt this time while getting my regular head-to-toe check from the dermatologist. I had no idea I would react this way. This doctor has seen every inch of me, many times. But it was really hard letting him and the nurse see the half-finished robo-boob. I felt like I should warn them or something, “Hey, it looks really strange at this point, brace yourself. It’ll look better a year from now.” And I know the doctor has gone through medical school and he’s known me for 15 years and he knows my whole cancer story, and I’m sure he’s seen worse, so why did I care? But it was a deep, primal thing, more like shame, which is weird, considering I haven’t done anything wrong. I wanted to cry. It’s a good thing I don’t have to go to singles bars these days, because that would be seriously damn awkward. I feel for the younger women out there who are going through this. It’s more complicated than I had appreciated.