Another Doctor's Visit and a PSA

Sadly, being diagnosed with one type of cancer does not make you immune to other cancers. Radiation treatment can lead to an increased chance of thyroid and skin cancers. Certain genetic mutations mean that some women are prone to getting both breast and ovarian cancers (see: Angelina Jolie). Because my dad was diagnosed with melanoma in 2012, I am at an increased risk of skin cancer, too.

It didn't help that I lived in Hawaii from 1982-85 (although it is still my happy place, sunshine be damned), sandwiched by stints in southeastern Alabama (more sunshine). Later, in high school, I lived in Florida and spent almost every weekend at the beach or the pool. And then a bunch of us in college used to get set for spring break with weekly visits to a cheap tanning bed up the street from our university. For a base tan, we told ourselves.

Then we sat on a catamaran in Jamaica and got fried anyway because base tans don't protect against burns, it turns out. I mean, look at this godawful "tan" line of mine, circa 1998 in Jamaica. (I should have at least kept wearing the same swimsuit every day. Oh, the advice I would like to share with my younger self...)

Here's the thing: I don't remember ever wearing sunscreen until my twenties, although I must have. Right...? Mom?

These days, I'm religious about it, especially living in Arizona. And I am always hopeful that the damage hasn't already been done. Because wouldn't that be the pits? To survive stage four breast cancer only to be taken down by a wayward mole?

So when a spot on my nose started looking weird a couple of weeks ago, I made an appointment with a dermatologist. This spot was pink and looking pinker, and I strongly suspected basal cell carcinoma. Because that's where my mind goes after what I've been through. And even though basal cell carcinoma is a highly treatable form of skin cancer, it's still cancer. On my face.

Except it wasn't. It isn't. The spot on my nose is a sun spot (so damage, yes) combined with a broken capillary underneath that is making it appear pink. Nothing a little concealer can't hide, or -- if I'm feeling really vain -- have fixed by laser treatment down the road. I had a full body scan, too, and everything looks okay.

I was a nervous wreck undressing for that doctor, though. Because I couldn't help thinking about how horrible it was to hear, "You've got cancer," the first time. I was scared out of my wits about living through those three words again.

So here's my little public service announcement: wear sunscreen. Every day. Put it on your kids, too. Don't go to tanning beds, ever. Maybe cover up a bit if you're going to be on a catamaran in Jamaica and drinking too much rum punch. And -- as always -- even if you seem crazy to everyone around you, if something seems weird on your body, please please please get it checked out. Please.

You can now go back to your regularly-scheduled programming.

Better than Xanax

Somehow, three months have passed and it is time for another scan. And, miraculously, I have not been completely hijacked by anxiety this time around (only occasionally held in its grips over the past couple of weeks). I'm not saying I've been a free-spirited, deep-breathing, always-patient monk about it, but remember: this is me we're talking about. Was I ever going to be that person?

My secret to staying sane? Lots of wine.

I'm only slightly joking.

We spent the last week in Portland, Oregon -- Chris at a workshop on volcanic ash, Quinn and I exploring summer in the Pacific Northwest with one of my best friends from college, J.T., and her two girls. We took our three preschoolers to the zoo, the park, a fountain they could splash around in for hours, a farm to pick berries, another park, out for ice cream a couple of times, and to the Oregon coast to explore the beach. We stayed busy.

My friend took me to her -- how do I say it? intense? sweaty? insane? -- spin/dance class where I almost fell off the bike. Her husband had asked me the night before if I had much rhythm even though he's known me since we were 21 and has probably seen me on the dance floor. When I said, "Not really," he replied, "You're going to hate it." Hate is a strong word, but I probably bore a strong resemblance to Elaine in her infamous "Seinfeld" dance. Since I didn't pass out, though, I figured it was a good indication I'd do okay on the echocardiogram of my heart this week. I hope.

Between the blackberries and the misty coastline, I was homesick for that corner of the country where I spent a good part of my childhood. I was ready to find Chris a job studying the soil of the region's winemakers. That's a good job for a geologist, right?

It's not like Chris didn't love the inexpensive microbrews or the lack of pretension or the fact that the only things that will get you judged are putting your recycling in the wrong container or driving too aggressively.

***

This morning I woke up before Chris and Quinn to drive across town for my CT scan, then across the street to the hospital for the ultrasound of my heart. I grabbed coffee between my tests, and a sandwich afterward, before heading a couple of miles south to my infusion center for chemo.

My nurses all asked if I'd had a rough weekend thinking about my scan (results of which I'll get Wednesday afternoon). The truthful answer is no, because it's hard to think about an upcoming scan when you're chasing toddlers and marveling at perfect summer weather and attempting to stay upright while dancing on a spin bike.

I wonder if I can get a prescription for a trip to Portland every three months?

Back to Earth

As we were driving the two hours north through the pouring rain from Duck Key to Miami on Monday morning, Quinn asked us where we were going. 

"We're going home," I said. "To our house in Phoenix."

"Oh," he responded. "We're going back to Earth?" 

I laughed, but it does feel like we landed with a thud squarely back on planet Earth Monday night. We woke up yesterday morning to a conversation with our contractor about replacing the chipped countertop in our new mother-in-law suite, to an empty refrigerator, to Quinn's jet-lag at 5:15 a.m., to ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN DEGREE TEMPERATURES. Way to welcome us home, Phoenix.

We were in the Keys for two of my best friends' wedding, a couple of people I've known since I was seventeen and we were all freshmen at Hopkins together. A couple who finally -- FINALLY -- realized they were more than best friends and finally -- FINALLY -- got engaged at my brother's house in Idaho last winter. So, this was also in part a college reunion, albeit in a locale a teensy bit prettier than Baltimore.

 

Chris and I got to have our first date night in months (months!), even if it meant paying exorbitant resort-priced babysitter fees. In my next life, I'm going to spend my twenties on an island making millions watching movies while other peoples' kids sleep upstairs. But it was worth it. We needed it.

And if we thought Quinn was a water baby before, this trip just solidified that notion. We could not get him out of the water for more than five minutes during the day -- not to eat more than a bite or two of food, not to take more than a sip of a virgin strawberry daiquiri, barely to go home to sleep at night. Our saving grace was that we were sharing a villa with another family whose two girls are just older and just younger than Quinn, and peer pressure to eat dinner/brush teeth/wash the sand out of your hair works wonders. The kid is stubborn. No idea where he gets that.

We're all having a rough time adjusting to being back on planet Earth, back from island time and planet Florida and time with some of the best people I know, these friends who've been my friends for nearly two decades and who I don't see often enough even when I see them at three out of four weddings in two months. Cancer has amplified this point: there never seems to be enough time.

Congratulations, Beth and Shanon. The weekend was as beautiful as you two are. As an added bonus, you finally -- FINALLY -- got Quinn to nap, he was so worn out yesterday. I owe you for that.