This wasn’t easy, having been a sunbather all my life. In my girlhood, even the Barbie dolls flaunted lineless, milk chocolate tans. My favorite was Malibu P.J. with her long, pearly blonde hair adorned with love beads. Ah, the late ‘60s, and not a thought about holes in the ozone, malignant melanoma, or SPFs (sun protection factors).
I spent most days of my childhood summers at the swimming pool. In high school I was a lifeguard and swimming instructor, which meant about 13 hours of sun per day. When I wasn’t at the pool, I was at my best friend’s family lake cabin water skiing, boating and canoeing. The sun potion of popular choice was baby oil with iodine. We once even used Crisco because we’d heard it deepened the tan. Needless to say, we fried.
In college, we called sunbathing “bagging rays.” In my travels, I’ve bagged rays on Cancun Island using turtle oil, on the Isle of Menorca using carrot oil, in California using Coca Cola, in South Texas using beer, using cocoa butter in the Caribbean — whatever the locals recommended to boost color. All the while, I considered two ironies: the fact that I, a Caucasian, yearned to resemble a woman of color; and the fact that the sun, putting out all it’s energy, completely sapped mine.
As I sit here recounting this hedonistic history of damaging ultraviolet rays, my mind goes to the horror stories of women suffering anorexia or bulemia, ensnared in our culture’s image of what a woman should look like.
I look like my Irish/Austrian ancestry dictates: blue-eyes; blondish hair; fair, freckled skin — the sort of skin prone to skin cancer. Well, I’d had this little sore on my chin for some time. Like most people, I’m familiar with the cancer warning signs like “a sore that doesn’t heal.” But I thought skin cancer looked like moles gone wrong, like dimensional freckles, so I didn’t worry too much.
Instead of healing, the sore deepened. So I finally made an appointment to see my doctor. Within two seconds of looking at my chin, he said, “Skin cancer.”
“Really?” I asked. “I didn’t think skin cancer looked like this.”
“It’s a pearly excavation,” my doctor said, which I thought made the disease sound like an exotic mining operation. He referred me to a plastic surgeon and said to make an appointment immediately.
When I went to the plastic surgeon’s office, I told the receptionist I needed an appointment.
“Do you have cancer?” she asked.
Her blunt question took my breath away. “Yes,” I said, “I guess I do.” And in that moment vulnerability replaced my youthful sense of invincibility. And I prayed the prayer of pleading: “Oh, please, dear God, don’t let me have cancer.”
I always thought people looked healthier, more attractive, with a suntan. Believe me, there’s nothing attractive about blood dripping down the chin while a surgeon cuts away cancer. There’s nothing attractive about seven blue thread stitches traversing the chin.
Thanks be to God, the pathology report pegged the cancer as basal cell — the most common and least dangerous form — and indicated the margins were clean, suggesting the surgeon had excised the cancer. The plastic surgeon said complete healing would take up to a year.
Skin is the largest organ of the body and the way it heals is nothing short of awesome. Observing my skin heal underscored the magnificence of the human body: the involuntary pulses and processes of flesh and bone and brain. Like the infinite wonders of the heavens and the unfathomable complexities of the earth, the cells and functions of the human body make me believe in a God of power and might, omniscience, omnipotence — the creator of heaven and earth and humankind.
Would that this brush with the disease leave my cancer card sufficiently punched for the rest of my life. We can’t live forever. All of us return to dust. But, without fanaticism, pursuing a healthy lifestyle makes sense. Vanity aside, our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit.
So snuff out that cigarette. Eat your fruits and vegetables. Get out and get some exercise. And please, please, don’t forget the sunscreen.
