Look, the only known cancer on my body is a melanoma cancer on my right inner thigh. It’s been a perfect black as coal non-raised mole for decades. Many decades.
I knew it was there, and it knew I knew it was there, and that was that. Perfectly round – so perfect that the tiny thing stood out to me – me being so imperfect and all; that was the only perfect thing on me.
If it had appeared on my face or neck some people would have called it a beauty mark. Like Liz Taylor had.
Not me. I always watched it. Grandma Davies was covered with moles – skin moles. Not me. I had a few, so few to mention, except this one.
Now, I think it went too far in becoming the ugly mole.
I look it up. I compare. I read from Mayo Clinic that it needs to be 1/4 inch to be acted on. I know measurement. Measurement is my work. This beauty mark turned ugly is not 1/4 inch – any way you want to measure it.
My father had melanoma cancer. Still, mine does not meet the required concern. His didn’t either. Dad died of cancer.
My mother’s basal cell skin cancer, because she had a DNR (do not resuscitate, meaning she didn’t want to live by the effort of machines), was treated by scratching the wound, debreeding it, rinsing it, putting a band-aid on it and a cheery message by the person doing the procedure, ‘you’re good to go’ (while privately saying in their mind, ‘now that I’ve scratched your cancer cells directly into your blood stream it won’t be long’). Mom died of cancer also.
I’m not worried. I am concerned that if I do see a health professional about this, that they’ll poke and scratch at it and unsettle, then wake a sleeping cancer.
I’ll get to talking about what the Cleveland Clinic did regarding the density in my breast that somehow turned from ‘you decide with your doctor about the density’ to the Cleveland Clinic decides via a certified letter, months after I canceled the biopsy. A tiny calcification the radiologist said to me – the same that I have in my lungs and my brain – all good according to my doctor. Nothing to worry about. So why no biopsy of my brain or lung? And why the torturous biopsy that they wanted me to endure given that I had a concussion? And they’re going to put a tracking device in my breast?! And don’t worry, it’s made of titanium?!
To be continued…