My recent skin diagnosis could be summed up like this: “Hey, 70s girl who spent hours soaking up the sun, competing to be the ‘darkest tanned’ in high school – you’re incredibly fortunate. That spot on your shoulder was serious (an L2 concern), but thankfully not the most severe kind (L3), and you fortunately got a skilled, empathic micro-surgeon, Dr. Andy so your confidence about a good outcome was high but now, where I stand decades later,  it is time to take your  dermatological health seriously.” If I could go back, those are the first thing I’d tell my teen self.

Then, I’d praise her. I’d praise my younger self, and my current self, for facing the fear that surrounds medical exams – the intimidating prospect of scalpels, needles, thread, and scissors. Growing up largely without regular doctor visits, clinical spaces whether retro or contemporary, still feel foreign to me.

In fact, when I finally scheduled the dermatologist appointment, it marked nine years since I’d last been in a doctor’s office, aside from a mandatory pre-flight Covid test in Peru. As far as I recall, I’d never even seen a dermatologist before; I mistakenly associated that field solely with cosmetic procedures, not potential life-saving interventions.

So, while waiting for the results after the lesion was excised, I had unexpected time to reflect. It was time spent contemplating how much I truly cherish the simple, everyday moments of life on this planet – a perspective often sharpened by the threat of loss.

Hearing the prognosis – the words “the markers are ALL clear” – felt monumental. That wonderful news brought my golden-skinned teenage self sharply into focus. I felt immense gratitude for the future ahead of me and for the grace I’d received, despite my youthful ignorance about the real dangers of unprotected sun exposure. Back then, much of the world didn’t fully grasp the risks we were taking while striving for that deep tan like we do now.

But wow, did it feel good to lay out on a lazy summer day. I vividly remember being in my bikini, skin sticking slightly to the green-slatted lawn chair, Joe Walsh blasting from a nearby radio, “Life’s been good to me so far.” Sipping Southern style sweet iced tea, life felt full of potential.

Now, as I reassess the glorious privilege of inhabiting a body that’s still vibrant, albeit slightly dinged, I hear that same rock chorus wafting through memory’s window. My mature self croons along with Mr. Walsh, joining my younger self on that perfect, blue-sky day, “Life’s so good so far”.

Looking at a selfie of my healing shoulder, my inner teenager sees the beauty in regeneration – how my flesh closed the gap that was covered with gauze for weeks all by its brilliant biological  self. I smile at the young woman I was in that humid jungle of farmland, she reaches out, takes my freckled adult hand in her smooth one and can’t resist a joking Frankenstein reference about the stitches. I counter with something a male friend said when I lamented missing yoga while I convalesced, worried about slinky dresses with spaghetti straps still being an option: “Are you kidding?, he said, “Scars are sexy.” I don’t know how serious he was but I’m buying it and staying busy visualizing mending the bottom edge of the cut flesh to the top, being a bridge for my Mary Shelley-esque reconstruction. 

While waiting for the biopsy results, my research habit kicked in. When facing the unknown, I often seek comfort in statistics. This time, however, the findings were sobering. Had I known this statistic beforehand, I might have hesitated to even enter the Skin and Cancer Institute:

“Our entry into the first of our double digit years is the period of life where much skin cancer is rooted.”

There’s little comfort in discovering as an adult that our skin was most vulnerable during a time long past. Still, the adage “better late than never” certainly applies to awareness and action. (For those curious about the science of dermatological self-care, you can learn more here: https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3409870/).

Ultimately, I thank my lucky stars for the medical advances that can treat skin like mine – skin that has brought me so much pleasure through enjoying nature, soaking up Vitamin D, and feeling the intoxicating warmth of the sun. I will be more regular with my visits to the institutions that can detect things about our bodies when all we feel is a tug, an intuitive nudge, that it is time to lean into the vulnerable role of patient.

Given this recent warning from my body, my relationship with the sun will inevitably shift, of course. I’ll still honor  it the way my Native American ancestors did yet I’ll move from seeking hedonistic bliss to embracing a reverent appreciation for gentle, beneficial doses of golden light. 

Prudence now sits on my right shoulder overseeing the complex exchange between our elemental selves and the technologically rich apparatus that makes up human life in the 21st century.  Me, the 60s girl, I made it into the new millenium albeit with a new scar as a badge of awareness that will now guide how I use sunlight as an agent for wellness neurological research finds.

Sunlight triggers our primal wakefulness, reminding us it’s time to get up, that life is good. And as recent experience and studies show, so are regular check-ups with a skilled health practitioner. 

Last but certainly not least: I am reminded to thank the Universe for the nudge it gave me during my meditations to get my skin scanned. Oddly enough, the whole series of treatments turned out to be entertaining; I was given a dermatologist who could distract and connect with me by discussing David Lynch and film noir of all things, while meticulously searching my body for threatening anomalies. 

Now, however, the next time I watch Eraserhead, the infamous chicken-cutting scene will resonate on a new, visceral level, making my skin crawl anew, this time for an entirely different darkly personal reason.

My inner teenager laughs at the way life has colored what is a black and white classic story and tells me she feels like she finally got that tattoo we’ve been arguing about all these years; life has been good enough to add its own private badge of gory cinematic color.

a. h.