Spittin' on Death

Dead. A common word with a very final meaning. While I do believe in the afterlife, it is still an end to this world. The only world that we consciously know. In my job I am faced with death more often than most. Be it an expected death, a sudden and tragic catastrophe, a reckless decision, an accident with no rhyme or reason, or the sudden failure of your heart or lungs; I have seen it all. Death generally invokes only negative feelings. Sadness, despair, hurt, pain, depression... at least to the general public. But not always in my world.


Being in the medical field, death is almost routine. Death happens and there are many times that no matter how hard you try, or no matter what you do, death is still imminent. It sucks. And while it is sad and tragic, we (particularly EMS personnel) can not dwell on it. This does not make us cold, uncaring, or lack compassion. It just is what it is. If we took everything we see on a daily basis to heart, you would never have paramedics on the street for very long. There would be a mental facility that contains drooling, babbling, helmet wearing ex medics.


If I could have a dollar for every time someone has said, "I don't know how you do what you do", I definitely not be sitting here typing this. I would be laying out on a beach with the wind blowing my hair, the warm sun on my skin, tasting the salt in the air, sipping a cold drink with a little umbrella stuck in the..... oh, sorry, tangent. Anyway, whenever someone says that to me I always reply with the same answer. "Well to be honest you have to be a little bit crazy to do this job. But some people are made for it, and most are not". I usually get a chuckle out of that from my patient and then I continue asking intimate questions about their bodily functions. 


Most people do not think of their own mortality. Especially when you are young because you don't think it will happen to you, or that you have plenty of time left. But guess what? It will and you may not. I was suppose to learn that lesson several years ago. But guess what? I didn't. Denial denial denial.


My son was born in the Spring of 2007. While I was on FMLA from work, I decided it would be a great time to get caught up on all my routine doctor visits that I had been putting off. Mainly the dermatologist. I had never been to one before because I never had the need for one. But there was this freckle on my leg that I finally had to admit to myself, was a little too dark. Like black. It was only the size of a pencil tip, if that. How long had it been black? Years. At least two to three years that I count back to. So I go to the dermatologist, they remove the freckle, and a suspicious looking mole on my back. I go home and don't think anything of it.


I guess a week or so later I get a voicemail that says they have the results of my biopsy and to give them a call back to discuss my results. At this point I'm at home alone with a screaming three week old demon baby that had undiagnosed silent reflux. Needless to say, I didn't call them back. I figured they would just mail me the results. I honestly wasn't very worried about it. A week or so later I get a letter in the mail from them and I assumed it was my results. It got tossed in the pile of mail on the counter for several days. When I did finally open it, it was not my results quite like I expected. Instead it said I needed to call their office immediately in reference to my results. F***. Nothing like the feeling of dread when making that phone call.


As I am sure you have already guessed by now, those results were not peachy keen. The suspicious mole on my back was fine. The black little freckle, not so much. The "freckle" was called melanoma in situ. Which basically means the stage before it's technically called melanoma and also means that it has not penetrated past the skin. It does mean however that several days later a chunk of meat will be taken out of your leg and require a plastic surgeon to stitch it back together leaving an ugly little scar. 


I'm a paramedic. I don't know all the different types of cancers and their stages or what their survival rates are. I knew melanoma was a skin cancer and that was it. I wasn't too concerned about it... until I Googled it. Not only is it a skin cancer, but it is the most aggressive form of skin cancer. And not only is it the worse kind of skin cancer, but it is the one that can spread rapidly and the more it spreads, the less likely you are to survive the next five years. Comforting isn't it? Imagine reading that while holding your three week old baby boy in your arms.


After the removal of the chunk of meat from my leg, the margins were clean, technical term for they got it all, and life went on as normal. Minus I was to stay out of the sun, wear sunscreen whenever I am outdoors, and follow up with my dermatologist every six months. Sounds simple enough, right? Not. I was 28 and a beach bum. However, for the first two years I was fairly compliant. The first summer I did not go to the beach, or a pool, or hang about in the sun. But that was because I had a newborn at home who was about as predictable as the stock market. The next summer I attempted the beach and the pool... but I had a toddler who was off like a horse in the Kentucy Derby anytime you set him down. So for another summer I stayed out of the sun, mostly. 


As they say, old habits die hard. Now my son is a beach bum as much as I am and we spend a lot of time outside in the sun. Plus, I became pasty white in those summers out of the sun. Let's be honest, tan fat looks better than pale pasty white fat. This past summer I was at the beach a lot with friends and my son. And I actually did wear sunscreen...SPF 4. Heh. In the back of my head there was the voice tsk tsk-ing at me. I knew I shouldn't be laying outside in the sun for hours. I knew I shouldn't be getting a nice golden deep tan. I knew I was playing Russian Roulette. Did it stop me? Nope.


A couple months ago I noticed a freckle on my leg right above my ugly little scar. And I honestly can't tell you if its been there my whole life or not. But the fact that I've actually noticed it leads to believe that it it's either 1) darker or 2) bigger. I'm thinking both. Any normal person would of course make an appointment with their dermatologist to get it checked out and get it cut off if you need be. But nuh uh. Not this girl. Why? Denial denial denial.


I will eventually make an appointment with the dermatologist of course. Hopefully one day soon I will learn that I can't just ignore my problems and hope they will go away. But for now, I guess I'm just spittin' on death.