This is the part where I lecture you just like your mother

Age 15. Nine hours on the beach in Ludington. No sunscreen. I cry all night long, miss work for two days, then finally go back on day three with my skin peeling off in two inch strips. Which is awesome since I work in a restaurant.

Age 16. I discover  the tanning booth. A love affair ensues.

Age 18. My grades are awesome and I’m already accepted into my college of choice, so I get to cut out of school for a week and go to Florida with the family I babysit for. Two days after I get back, I leave for Florida again on Spring Break with my friends. My skin is so brown I have a hard time finding make-up that’s dark enough for me.

Ages 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. I visit the tanning booth on and off. It makes me feel better in the wintertime, and keeps my acne under control. Plus, I’m young. Who worries about things like wrinkles?

Age 26. Another horrible sunburn. This time I’m wearing sunscreen. But somehow I’ve missed a six inch spot on the left side of my chest. The skin on my boob bubbles. It hurts like a motherfucker.

Age 33. That mole looks funny. In fact, I don’t even remember having a mole there. My mom comments on it. My husband comments on it. I figure I should probably go have it removed.

 

So, this is what it looks like when, at age 33, your mole turns out to be Basal Cell Carcinoma. The mole was smaller than an eraser, and so superficial the doctor didn’t even have to go all the way down to the fatty tissue. The amount she had to scrape and burn off is about the size of a quarter. Provided the biopsy shows that all of the cancer was removed, treatment is done. There will be checks every three months for the next year to make sure there’s no recurrence. That’s it.

I am lucky.

Lucky it wasn’t bigger.

Lucky it wasn’t on my face.

Lucky it was easily treated.

Lucky it wasn’t melanoma.

I’d rather not take my chances again.

You shouldn’t either.

Wear some damn sunscreen.

 

Posted under I am an asshole, I like drugs, It is a miracle I don't drink more often by Laugh, Mom