Susan’s (almost) skin cancer chronicle, part 1

Yesterday I had four moles scraped off my abdomen.

December, 2005: Four small black marks with irregular edges and dense centers. These spots have been a part of my anatomy since my late teens, along with dozens of others sprinkled across my arms and legs and back. A precise row comets across my face, the one in the middle looks just like Cindy Crawford’s.

When I was 12, I used to cry when I looked in the mirror. In the words of a sixth grader, my face was spotted, like a bug. All that year and next I shied away from meeting people, convinced their instant judgment had them comparing me to a less-than-glamorous ladybug. I refused to look at myself in a mirror, and if I did, I focused on my eyes or my nose or the center of my chin, mole-free venues, safety zones.

My mother proffered makeup: I daubed on foundation and cover up. The dark spots faded, my skin tone was smooth. I studied the results and reached for a washcloth. I realized, suddenly, that hiding my branding was the same as hiding me.

More moles appeared as puberty progressed, like a permanent form of chicken pox. Spots and spots and more spots.
It took years to adjust to the moles, the imagined stares.

I laughed when I learned that fake moles – beauty marks – were the rage in the era of Marie Antoinette. Men and women pasted on what nature had sprinkled on me like pepper. Of course women also rouged their nipples and men wore white wigs. It is easy to covet, enjoy, what isn’t real.

Nature’s tattoo, that’s how I describe my moles today. A swirl of cocoa-colored constellations that only I can name. My moles are a part of me, too many to count, a visual anchor when I look at my arms, my legs, my chest.

Fifteen years ago a mole on my stomach started to shimmer and grow. Its progress was noticeable, frightening. The mole was removed, a biopsy done: Displastic, indicating the presence of pre-cancerous cells. A narrow white mark, thick with a ridge of keloid scar tissue, is all that remains. This and the knowledge that I am at risk for melanoma, and have to avoid the sun.

Waiting for the next mole to morph was a slow trickle of sand through a large hourglass. Yesterday the sand ran out.

The dermatologist checked my scalp, my eyes, the soft tissue in my mouth; my neck and shoulders, the broad sweep of my back; hips, then legs, and in between my toes. She used a jeweler’s loupe and a sharp blue pen, inking circles first on my chest, then low on my belly. She’d pause, reconsider, then wipe off a mark with a cool swipe of alcohol. The others were scraped off, tested, results mailed to me in a week.

“It’s nothing to worry about but we have to be sure,” she said.

Three needle sticks of Lidocaine, two oversized bandages, and it was done. The lab tech left the room, glass slides clicking on a stainless steel tray.

I sat up and studied bloodied Q-tips in the trash. My moles were elsewhere. Underneath the tan stickers was a raw patch of skin where a starburst pattern of black moles used to be.

I spent a lifetime learning that I am more than the sum of my skin. It took less than 45 minutes to alter a tattoo more personal than any artist could create.

When I peel this bandage off tonight, I’ll know that what lies beneath is the real beauty mark.

Next up: Susan needs surgery