SKIN CANCER. I WAS CALLING IT MELANOMA (it sounded better), just a “little” procedure I’d have to undergo. That’s how I portray most stuff like this, downplaying any physical ailments I might run into. I have lots of friends like that, too — you know who you are. We pretty much believe we’re fine until an appendage falls off or something. And this is for many reasons, I think. Some of my reasons probably originate from growing up with a hypocondriachal mother and a Navy lieutenant father. Mom was constantly battling exotic illnesses that kept her from doing mom things, while dad believed that the best medicine was doing major yard work in the back forty. Preferably in subzero temperatures.
Another reason, I think, that I and others have a habit of shaking off our nagging physical issues is gratitude. A lot of us, especially at a certain age, are so damn grateful to be as fit and healthy as we are that we chalk up the lone oooh or owww to just getting a bit older — and we go with it. Physical health, an able body, fitness that allows us to exert ourselves — to push ourselves with confidence — is a blessing to many of us. And one we don’t take for granted.
And I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, like where does gratitude stand in the book of best practices. See, I envision arrogance as at the opposite pole to humility. And the way I see it, gratitude can actually slide back and forth on that spectrum. Gratitude is not the same as humility. Like, I am literally grateful on the daily for my body. I have even (almost fully) transcended the onslaught of crappy messaging that has barraged me throughout my life when it comes to women and our physiques. I actually believe I am beautiful. And yet, come to find out, even with that gratitude intact, I’ve also been walking around with a bit more arrogance than I realized.
Before a downfall the heart is haughty, but humility comes before honor.
– Proverbs 18:12
When I walked into that doctor’s office last Monday for my procedure, I was just as sure as sure could be that it’d be nothing much. Because that is what I am used to — nothing much in the physical disability department. As the nice doctor began to provide me with possible scenarios, the most severe being what is now on my face, my jaw began to drop. That kind of stuff just doesn’t happen to me, I realized I was thinking to myself as doc’s voice floated around my ringing ears. This just could not be.
Eight hours later, when the doctor had finally scraped enough skin off my nose to get all that cancer out of there, I was full on traumatized. Because of what I had been through, and what was still to come — the reconstruction. (Which of course makes me think immediately of post-Civil War history, but that’s not what we’re talking about here). See, the fine looking nose that I came in with that morning was no longer so fine; it had to be reconstructed using my cheek and my ear. What?! By the way, I have realized my arrogance in all of this, but something I’ve actually always known about myself is that I am easily grossed out. And this was gross.
The LORD tears down the house of the proud, but he sets the widow’s boundary stones in place.
-Proverbs 15:25
This was my devotional reading on Friday. It dawned on me that the widow — back in that day — was used as a representative of humility because her role in society, once manless, was that of a person without support, a person in constant need. The boundary stones mentioned, however, are used for the demarcation of property lines. So I read this as being about someone who has lost everything, according to society, but in fact will always have what is truly hers in the long run.
I left the doctor’s office Monday looking like Phantom of the Opera, still in shock that all of that had happened to me. I got home to my daughter who had picked up pain killers and sandwiches. I am actually proud (same family as arrogant) that I haven’t taken any prescription medication. Do you see how deep this thing can go?!
Anyway, it’s been a week. My bandages are disgusting; they smell, are caked with blood, and loose pieces of medical gauze flap in the breeze that blows through my study window. I went to church in a mask yesterday (thank God for COVID?), and I taught boxing this morning in a mask. No reason folks should be faced with all this. (But really, do I wear the mask for them, or for me)? I am now about to teach an online history course, and have warned my dear students of my startling visage. One week down, two to go.
By the way, I also might have to write a whole other blog on the wack health care alleged-sytem this country has. It took me so long, after my move to LA, to find a reliable doctor from whom I was required to get a referal for a dermatologist. (See, until my move three years ago I had my skin checked every year. Because I like to be outside, friends, okay?). So I finally got my referal, only to be bumped onto Medi-Cal insurance which no dermatologist would take. They were not even allowed to accept a cash payment from me if I had that insurance. So what did I finally do 2 1/2 years into my quest? I lied and said I had no insurance so that I could see a dermatologist, pay hundred of dollars, get a screening, and find out I have cancer on my nose and something suspicious on my calf. (The suspect has subsequently been removed). So yeah, my heart breaks for all the people who may have a smililar situation but do not have the time, resources, language skills, or confidence to punch their way through this sytem and into a doctor’s office. For God’s sake, how broken do things have to be before reforms are put into place? (Um, that’s rhetorical at this particular national crisis moment).
So here I am in the midst of my own little crisis. Not quite the Hot Girl Summer I had anticipated. So far I have skipped an outdoor concert and will forego two Fourth of July parties on Tuesday. (Then again, “What to the Slave is the 4th of July,” I ask. C’mon the historian in me cannot not reference Douglass’ speech. Please do listen to this if you are unfamiliar with it).
I am, on the other hand, trying to do the things I’m able to do — even if they are not as much fun as usual — like volunteering at the food pantry, and taking a walk here and there. Because, you know what, there are a whole lot of people who would be happy to exchange pysical lives with me right this very minute. I need to be less of a sissy about how I look, and stop thinking about the temporary restraints upon my physical activity. I will continue to write, and to read, and to see friends willing to hang out with my mummified self. And I will pray for quick healing, and thank God for getting me into the doctor’s care when I did.
So go get your skin checked — every year, no matter your melanin. And remember that gratitude is on a sliding scale; sometimes it can veer towards arrogance, but it can just as well be right up there next to humility. That’s my goal — though I have a ways to go still. Peace.
Katie Singer 