Cancer. It is a word that strikes fear into the very core of your being. It is almost disabling, the first time you hear it applied to you or someone you love. It takes a known (life,) and turns it into a question mark (how much more of it?)
In my early 30's, I faced that word for the first time. I had a silly little spot on my back that refused to heal, no matter what I did. It was teensy, pin head sized, and didn't fit the parameters of cancer at all, so I wasn't concerned about it. Rather, I was annoyed by it, because it kept bleeding every time I got dressed in the morning, and it was staining my clothing. For some reason, this spot just would not heal and go away.
After several weeks with no progress, I even tried putting a bandaid on it for a couple of weeks, figuring that would stop the irritation and it would finally be able to heal, but that didn't work, either. So I went to the dermatologist to have it removed. He agreed it was likely to be a nothing spot, but in an abundance of caution, because I have many risk factors, he took a generous margin around the actual mole and sent the whole thing in for biopsy.
When the call came that it was melanoma, I felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. It was a frightening word, melanoma. My legs went weak, and my immediate thought was for my children, still very young, and how much they needed me.
I was incredibly fortunate. It was in the earliest possible stage, I call it baby melanoma, and they got it all in the biopsy. They were confident that would be it, they wouldn't even do any follow up treatment other than watch it carefully, because it was so early in its development. I was able to go on with my life without giving it much more thought, other than frequent doctor appointments, which got further and further apart over time. After ten years, I was back to the same risk level as if I had never had it.
But that diagnosis changed the way I lived my life. I understood the threat in a totally different way, and I realized that some of the outcome was in my own control. I went from carefree in the sun to careful. I do monthly mole checks, and I don't hesitate to see a dermatologist if there is anything out of the ordinary going on. I have had many more moles removed over the years, and have also dealt with squamous cell carcinoma, a common occurrence in long term survivors of melanoma. Just recently, I had another nine moles removed, all of which were in the process of changing, and one of which was on the verge of turning into melanoma again. I will never again take for granted that a mole is just a mole, and, in my case, that is a good thing.
The interesting thing is, these dangerous moles are always in a place where I can't see them. I went to the doctor for a mole check this last time mostly because of a spot on my face, which turned out to be nothing at all. The ones I should have worried about were invisible to me. I didn't even realize the danger, because I was totally unaware they were there.
I think that is a good metaphor for sin. All too often, we don't realize the danger we are in. We think we are living a good life. We think we are doing all the right things. But there is no guarantee that will keep us safe from harm. Satan is always hovering, waiting to strike when we are most vulnerable.
I use sunblock most of the time (sometimes I forget, I am not going to lie,) and stay out of the heat of the day in summer to lessen the risk, but that doesn't take away the damage already done before I even knew about it, nor is it a guarantee that something won't develop anyway. The risk is already there, because I am a blue eyed, fair skinned person who has had multiple severe sunburns in my life. Nothing I do now can take that risk away. It's too late.
But God can take the risk away from us. No matter what we have done, no matter how ridiculous our behavior, no matter what risk taking we have engaged in, if we call upon him in times of trouble, he can relieve us of the burden of our sins. Grace is always a prayer away.
I am one of the fortunate ones. Because I learned about cancer in my early 30's, I changed my ways, and do things differently now. I am vigilant, aware of the danger, and alert to anything that may lead to a diagnosis of cancer again. That small spot was a warning signal in my life of the danger ahead, and I have done everything I could to learn from it and behave differently.
Today I am grateful for my early brush with cancer. It almost certainly extended my life, and possibly my children's lives, as well, because I changed my behavior outdoors for all of us as a result. I may someday hear that word again, and the outcome may not be as fortuitous the next time, but I have had the gift of life for 25 years that I may not have had otherwise, and I have been here to see my children grow up. Life is a gift, and I am grateful for each day I may not have seen.
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