Six months ago this week, something happened to me. Something that I've been working to rationalize but haven't wanted to talk about, but that needs to be discussed so awareness is raised.
On October 10, 2011, I went to the dermatologist where I was informed that I had a cancerous melanoma on the back of my left calf. A few weeks before that, at Milwaukee's yearly tattoo convention, I looked down at the back of my leg, where I have a tattoo of an owl, and noticed a spot in one of the owl's eyes that didn't look right. The skin looked shiny, and the edges of the area weren't even whatsoever. It was a spot I knew hadn't always been there, so I checked out a photo from when the tattoo was fresh, and of course, the spot was not there in the photo.
(On the left is a photo of the fresh tattoo, and on the right is an awkward photo of the spot I found - the only photo that exists).
Growing up, my mother took me to the dermatologist several times to have moles removed, so I figured this was going to be no big deal. I made an appointment with a local dermatologist (after calling about four), went in for a biopsy, and waited to get my results. The doctor said that it didn't look good to him, but I tried not to think about it and tried to have a positive attitude about the whole thing. Went to work each day and didn't think much about it, to be honest.
On the afternoon of October 10th, I ran to a thrift store after work to buy a stupid Rod Stewart t-shirt I'd seen there that past weekend. My phone rang, and it was the dermatologists' office. They told me I needed to get to the office immediately, but couldn't tell me why. Until I pressured the nurse to tell me what she was calling me to tell me, which was my worst fear - that the biopsy had come back positive for melanoma.
Let me tell you one thing: nobody wants to get a phone call finding out that they have cancer, and I absolutely would not wish that feeling upon my worst enemy. I was diagnosed with a Stage I Melanoma, which meant that the melanoma itself was less than two inches thick. Thankfully, due to that, I would not need radiation or other cancer treatment, just surgery.
(Left is the faxed report of the dermatology findings of UCSF, and to the right is one of the in-shock e-mails I sent to one of my bosses)
I made the normal phone calls - to my dad and my bosses, and I honestly believe that I was in shock when the calls were made. I tried to act like it was no big deal and like it didn't bother me, until I broke down on the phone with my father about how terrified I was to recover alone. It was decided then that I would stay at their house in Green Bay to recover, just to make it easy on everyone.
Going into the office, I found out just what the surgery would take, and it was somewhat simple - they would need to excise an inch of skin around the spot itself, including the spot, in order to verify they got all of it. This wouldn't be a huge deal, spare the fact that I would lose a huge piece of the tattoo I had on my leg. At first, it sucked to realize that I had spent money on a piece I wouldn't get to enjoy at its' fullest forever, but at the same time I knew that it would serve as a reminder of what could have happened if I would not have been as observant as I was. The fact that I looked down at my leg that day and realized that something wasn't right is something I still don't know reasons behind, but that I am very thankful for. In the photo to the right, you can see the spot (in the eyeball), and the inch margin around where it needed to be removed, as well as the football shape so they could put my leg back together. Thinking about that kind of surgery was honestly terrifying. I had no idea what would happen, and I knew I had to try and spin it the best way I knew how - so that's precisely what I did.
The guys at work were helpful in keeping my spirits high when I was at my lowest. I got so many texted jokes and little notes left in my office, that it made me feel special, and like they cared. Lord knew I needed it.
Surgery day came and went, and all I had to do was take care of my incision and all of the crazy bruises that went with it. Being babied by my parents at 25 years of age felt a little bit ridiculous, but I knew they meant the best. I was only out of work for around a week (I don't know that I could have taken anymore), and since then, I've been given a clean bill of health.
For two years after being diagnosed with melanoma, I will have to go to the dermatologist every three months to have a full body skin scan, and after the first two years it would go to six months, and then a year. Once you've had one melanoma, your chances of getting more increase exponentially. In my first appointment post-operation, I had a second spot looked at, that - thankfully - showed no abnormalities.
All I have to show for my experience is a dent in my leg, a scar, and a story. A story that I hope will help others to not have to endure the same things I did. What I can tell you is very simple:
- Even if you have tattoos, check your skin for any differences. Moles and melanomas can pop up out of nowhere, and just because you have a tattoo doesn't mean you're exempt whatsoever. I sure wasn't.
- If you see a spot that worries you, GO TO A DOCTOR. Don't wait and sweep it under the rug. Early detection is the best way to get the best results.
- Don't keep the news to yourself if it is something negative. Talk to friends and family, and make sure everyone understands where you're at and what's at stake. It's important for people to have your back, especially in the worst situations.
One thing that many people ask me is, "Liz, what are you going to do with the tattoo?" And you know, I've thought about getting it covered up, or seeing if it could be salvaged - but at the same time, having that constant reminder of what could have been, and how lucky I am, are more valuable to me than that perfect tattoo.
