is so vivid in my memory, it could have been yesterday. It was a hot day. The sun, which shone directly overhead was bright, and it's rays were intense. It was - by my definition - the perfect day for a suntan. Lying out in the back yard was precisely what I was doing when I heard a solemn "hi sweetheart". Startled by the interrupted silence, I bolted upright and did my best - notwithstanding the blaring sun - to focus on my father's face. He wore a sad look, and in his eyes - I sensed disappointment. I don't remember his exact words, but I will never forget his plea "You know," he commenced, “as a child, I remember literally begging my parents to quit smoking. I knew that if they didn't stop, it would lead to their death. Now, as I watch you bake yourself in the sun, I feel like that same helpless child, but this time it's not my parents, but my own daughter whom I beseech. I can't bear the thought of losing you to something that could have been prevented".
I could only imagine his pain, having lost his father at the age of 25, his mother when he was 35 (both due to a lifetime of smoking), and then just 5 years later, losing the love of his life, his soul mate...to cancer. I can only imagine his heartache, the utter letdown he must have experienced, as he walked back inside - defeated and unaccompanied - while I, in an attempt to even out my tan, rolled over to my stomach.
It started with a mole on my left hand. I don't remember always having the mole, and if I did, I had never noticed it before...something was definitely different about it now. It wasn't very big, but it did have varying colors, and an irregular border...two definite warning signs. For probably a year, I have been meaning to get in to get it checked out. However, for one reason or another, the days, weeks and months passed by without a doctor's visit...and not even so much as an appointment in the foreseeable future. It was one of those things that always nagged at me, much like hearing my father's words of warning; but also, like my father's words, the nagging never led to action...until recently. It was about two months ago. I was in the shower, and completely out of the blue, I received a prompting so strong it scared me. I felt impressed to put everything else in my life on hold (trying to get pregnant, etc), and focus on the one thing that was starting me in the face. My mole. I felt strongly that if I didn't act quickly, it would be too late. Without hesitation, I made an appointment to see the dermatologist. I was afraid of what might happen if I didn't. I had to wait 6 weeks for my appointment, but felt at peace knowing that I had finally - rather than ignore the issue - taken some action. I felt like the ball was out of my court, and all I could do now, was wait. The day finally arrived, and after taking one glance at my mole, the doctor informed me that it would indeed need to be sent in for a biopsy. The mole was removed, and I was on my way...feeling relived, but at the same time slightly uneasy. I had secretly hoped that after looking it over, he would have said something to the effect of, "Well, I'm glad you came in, you never can be too careful...but this mole is perfectly normal. We'll see you again in a year and a half." He did tell me that he was very glad that I came in, but the way it was conveyed, the seriousness in his tone, left me walking away feeling nervous and uneasy. It took over a week and a half to get the results back from the lab. It was hard to concentrate on much else during the 11 days of waiting, but the day finally came. When I saw the doctor's name and number on my caller id, my heart skipped a beat. My shaky hand reluctantly yet anxiously, reached for the receiver, and in a quiver I said "hello?”
"Hello, is this Nicole"?
"Yes, it is".
“Nicole, this is _________ from Dr.__________'s office. I'm just calling to let you know that we did receive the pathology report from your biopsy, and it is in fact, malignant melanoma."
I really didn't hear much after the word melanoma wait isn't that the deadliest form of skin cancer? From the bits and pieces I did catch, I was able to formulate that the melanoma was detected in one of it's earliest stages, and to expect a high cure rate. The nurse gave me the number to a Mohs' surgeon, and told me to wait two days to call for an appointment.
Although I pretty much expected that result, I guess I wasn't really prepared to actually hear that I have cancer - the very culprit (in a different form) that took my own mother away from me. To know that such a vicious disease had invaded my body, or even just a part of my body, was a horribly unpleasant feeling.
Amidst the letdown, a feeling of peace ambushed me. I hung up the phone and burst into tears...but these were not tears of fear, or defeat, they were not tears of hopelessness or despair...they were tears of gratitude, tears of love and appreciation for my Heavenly Father. A Father who despite my weaknesses, despite my disobedience and lack of cognizance to his pleas and warnings, sent me something so powerful, that I for one could not ignore. I fell to my knees and thanked Him for His love. I thanked Him for his warning. I thanked Him for not giving up on me. I don't feel like it's my time to go. I feel like He still has work for me to accomplish on this earth. I like to think that, at least for the time being, He needs me here, not there. Maybe I have lives to touch; perhaps there are people who will touch me. My children need me, my husband needs me, and even more importantly, I need them. I'm grateful that I finally listened, that I stopped ignoring, that I took action, and that because the cancer is in it's earliest stages, it's very hopeful that I will be cured...completely.
My thoughts drift back to that hot summer day, in the back yard with my father. Although I don't remember the exact words he spoke, I can still hear the supplication in his voice...the desperation in his eyes.
I often wonder why I didn't listen to him that day. Oh I heard what he said. His words reached my heart, they moved me alright...so much in fact, that I've never forgotten that encounter. But why wasn’t I moved to action? I can't count the number of times I've laid out in the sun since that day...always my father's desperate words ringing in my ears. I wonder why we sometimes have to be so stubborn. Do we really think we know what's best for us? When those who are older, and wiser, and who have much more experience, are trying to warn us of danger up ahead...why do we choose to disregard their warning pleas? Do we somtimes think we are the exception? Do we think it can't or won't ever happen to us? Do we think that we're stronger than that? Or that we will continue to be protected and watched over, when we continue to make unwise choices? When we hear of other's sad stories...the tragedies that could have so easily been prevented...why isn't that enough? Why do we insist on finding out for ourselves...the hard way? Why are we so often wrapped up in the now, that we fail to contemplate the lasting effects...how might this - my choice, my action now - affect my family, myself, and my future?
This whole experience has truly humbled me to the dust. It's sad that it took a giant scare for me to finally change my attitude about the sun. You will no longer find me spending hours lying out by the pool, or in the back yard. No more telling my husband that I have sunscreen on, when really it's suntan oil with a sun protection factor of 6. This experience has caused me to take a step back, to reevaluate my life and my priorities. Having a tan is not more important than being a mom, and a wife, and a daughter, and a sister. It is not more important than being able to live and to breathe. Nothing is worth sacrificing the precious gift of life that I've been given...the opportunities to grow, and learn, and laugh, and love.
My hope now, is that I still have time to make a change…that the Lord will give me the second chance that I’ve been hoping and wishing for...that my story might bless someone else, and maybe even inspire another life or two.
If perhaps this is the case, it would make it all worthwhile.
