Mom and Skin Cancer

March 24 would have been my mother’s 91st birthday. It was the first time in all the years of my life that I didn’t acknowledge her birthday aloud. Even after her death, I have wished her happy birthday on social media. I think she might be hurt, because she has been showing up in my dreams, making pancakes and giving me unsolicited advice. Except the truth is if she were around I’d be sitting at her kitchen counter hoping she would help me choose a direction.

I went back to the skin doctor. I have a new lesion on the top of my wrist. It started as a teeny, tiny blemish, but grew to over a centimeter in a few weeks. The doctor said, “It’s probably squamous; I will have to biopsy it.” I figured. I was smart enough to look away this time as he numbed me up, shaved off the lesion, then cauterized the cut to stop the bleeding. Now my wrist just looks like it has been burned with a big cigar. It looks better than it did.

My mom had skin cancer. I don’t remember what kind, but it was a rare form of head and neck cancer. But hers presented atypically. She had a tumor removed from her calf that was almost as deep as her shin bone. Then she had a sizable tumor on her neck and a series of growths on her scalp. A piece of her scalp was actually removed and she had to use a solution that burned her. After that, she almost always wore her little pink “Life is Good” ballcap.

One time I went over to the house and she was sitting in the bathroom on the floor with a wash cloth on her head, crying. She tried to cut off the new growths herself with scissors. I remember being alarmed, wondering if she had finally entered the land of crazy. But I get it now. Basically that IS what the doctor does, only with skill, surgical tools, and drugs at hand. I hate doctors even more than my mom did, so I totally give her grace for that day in the bathroom.

I have to wait for the biopsy results to see what the next steps hold. I asked the doctor if these lesions were going to keep popping up like popcorn. He said potentially. So I said, “It won’t kill me, just take pieces of me, painfully, like teaching.” He laughed. Everybody always thinks I am joking.

This week back after spring break was kind of hell. I was trying to make a last push toward teaching my students how to divide before state testing, and they were passing low key hate notes to each other. I guess I should take this as a sign that they know something about writing. I went to watch them play basketball and got hugged by the team. I love them, even if I feel like I am in trapped in a cage with them. I guess figuring out what comes next is another thing I am waiting for.

In the meantime, Happy Birthday to my mother and good vibes for all the people touched by cancer in whatever form.