In The Midst Of Life

So, I don’t have cancer. I’ve spent the last 3 weeks examining my existence. On the 1st of August, fresh out of the shower and towelling my foot, I noticed a dark line running through the nail of my big toe. I’d developed three of what I believed were lentigos on the shin of the same leg exactly a year ago. They appeared overnight, looked harmless (I’m prone to freckles etc) and hadn’t done anything since then though I kept an eye on them. One of Solomon’s sayings is ‘He who increases knowledge, increases sorrow’ and he was right. I’m a prescribing pharmacist, my area is dermatology. It looked exactly like a subungual melanoma. Have you ever had the experience where you feel like you’re out of your body whilst being in your body? Then you know. Basically, I gave myself a talking to, got dressed, went to work. I’ll spare you the saga of trying to get an emergency appointment without being dramatic and using phrases like ‘cancer’ and ‘poor prognosis’. Once the lovely receptionist understood what I wasn’t saying, I was promised an appointment as long as I called at 8am on the day. My surgery was amazing. Having read every dermatology textbook and medical article I could lay my hand on over the weekend, I thought, ‘OK, melanoma and massively shortened lifespan, or totally benign melanonychia’ and continued with life. The GP looked at the three mole-like lesions and she agreed they were probably harmless. The nail? Urgent referral within two weeks max, she took pictures and said they’d be in touch. Four days later I had an appointment with the consultant fixed for a week’s time. Let’s just say the speed gave me an idea of what the GP thought might be going on there.

It is a really odd experience to think you might die soon when you feel completely healthy. I definitely confirmed that I’m a practical person. I made a will, allowed myself 3-12 months and figured out how to get rid of my stuff so no one had to wade through it all. I have a shedload of stuff. Literally. I decided to whittle it all down to what could fit in one room, basically two suitcases. The only stuff I thought I’d miss? My paintings, my interior design magazines and my books. Funny, right? I sorted out how to hand over all the Alara stuff, to make sure all the formulas made sense, and how much time I could afford to live for once I stopped work. Even I knew the calmness was bizarre. Any kind of healthcare work would be a no-no just because you literally can’t get away from end-of-life stuff and I didn’t think prefacing conversations about eczema with ‘You think you have problems? I have cancer’ would bring any comfort to either party somehow. So maybe 3-6 months of good health. Excellent, I’d spend some time in Lagos and some time next to the sea, maybe Cornwall, maybe New England. I’d write and I’d paint. Once I had a workable plan, I was alright.

I finally realised: this is the peace that passes all understanding. People tell me that Christianity is a prop for the weak-minded. Maybe it is but it enabled me to face the prospect of death with equanimity. Quite frankly, I was looking forward to knowing what happens next but I think that’s the scientist. I started wondering when I’d see my Mum, would God let me fling stars into space, would He let me use light to paint sunsets, would I be able to go anywhere just by thinking about it? Pretty cool, right? When I told a colleague about that today, she told me off for sounding so disappointed that I couldn’t do any of that….yet 🙂 After the third day, I decided to let God’s will be done. Stay or go, it was all good. I did tell Him I didn’t want some long, drawn-out nightmare though. So, God and I had this conversation. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. I was really feeling the love: I even saw two different rainbows in one week, 160 miles apart. I decided that was a sign that even if I pegged it, it was all according to plan. I started to dream about my Mum all the time; once she came and gave me a whole bowl full of red roses which was extremely cool. Last Sunday in church, I suddenly wondered what non-believers do. They might be terrified, and I thought how lucky I am to be able to forget my sinfulness because I wasn’t trusting in my own merit. I was trusting in Jesus’ righteousness or else I’d definitely be hell-bound, no question. It felt like lying on the warmest, softest cloud ever. For the first time, I truly understood what it means that someone else has paid your ransom. Pie- in-the-sky? Maybe you’re right. And maybe you’re not. All I know is, when I meet Him, which I believe I will, I’m going to give him the biggest hug EVER. The peace of not being afraid is indescribable.

And come yesterday, the wonderful consultant issued the magical words ‘I don’t think this is anything to worry about’ Full body scan, every last bit of hyperpigmentation checked and all is well. What caused it? I thought it might be trauma from wearing ridiculously unsuitable shoes whilst on holiday. She thought not because of the speed at which it appeared. Final check unless there are any dramatic changes in a few weeks. Can I just say that the NHS is truly amazing? We don’t know how lucky we are in the UK. Obviously I had the advantage of knowing how to navigate the system but even if I hadn’ t, the quality of care was incredible. I celebrated by treating myself to TWO Sausage & Egg McMuffins ( a rare treat – when I have the day off, the chances of being awake by 10am are exactly nil 🙂 ) and a trip to Chiswick House where the heavens opened up and I got soaked to the skin but felt totally alive.

So, here I am, in the world, with hope. But people, don’t ignore those new moles or explained changes or lesions. If you get anything from my story, remember the ABCDE:

A: Asymmetry: one half of the mole doesn’t match the other

B: Border irregularity

C: Colour that is not uniform

D: Dimensions greater than 6 mm (about the size of a pencil eraser)

E: Evolving size, shape or colour

Don’t rely on Dr Google and in the way that a lawyer who represents him/herself has a fool for a client, if you’re worried, go and see your GP. Even if you’re a doctor or nurse or pharmacist. Raising a glass to your good health this week. Have a great week.