Cancer, it’s a word I don’t think I’ll ever get used to saying.
Twenty-three, that’s how old I was when I got the dreaded phone call from my dermatologist. That, “Hi Christine, How are you? I’ve got good news and bad news.” Yeah, that call. “The bad news, you have Melanoma. The good news, we caught it early.”
A small, irregular mole showed up on the backside of my right arm. My mom noticed it and insisted that I get it checked out. I was resistant; I thought ‘it’s okay.’ My dermatologist told me time and time again, “The sun is dangerous, wear sun block, don’t tan” but I always said, “It will never happen to me.”
I got the call June 21, 2012. I was driving back to Fayetteville, Arkansas after spending my days off at home, in Dallas, with my parents. Fear, panic and about a million questions rushed over me. The initial reports came in as a severely dysplastic mole. A month later, the Little Rock pathologists decided it was Melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer.
I started tanning when I was just 14-years-old now here I am 23 and basically forbidden from the sun.
July 6th I had a chunk cut out of my right arm, just to make sure they got all of the Melanoma. My incision was about 6 inches long and went all the way to the muscle. Now, I am left with the scar, a constant reminder.
I am two months cancer-free.