Appreciating That You Won’t be Around Forever

  Everyone dreads hearing that they might have a medical problem.

  I’ve been lucky when it comes to medical problems. The worst was a cancer diagnosis. Fortunately, it proved to be a small, non-invasive tumor, caught early and surgically removed. 

  The followup involved a procedure every three months for two years to make sure the cancer hadn’t returned. Then every six months for two years, then once a year. Thankfully, no tumors have  returned.

  As mentioned above, I’ve been lucky. Nothing worse than common illnesses, minor accidents and routine surgeries.

  Except for chicken pox. Chicken pox in my thirties. Trust me; you don’t want to get a childhood disease as an adult. It’s the sickest I’ve ever been. Flu and pneumonia pale in comparison.

  You can’t take luck for granted, though. Anything that looks or feels concerning should, obviously, be reported to a doctor right away. An old friend of mine failed to do that and paid for it with his life.

  That’s why, when a new mole seemed to appear almost overnight just below my collarbone, I texted a picture of it to my dermatologist. My father had a close call with a malignant mole, so they’re definitely in my gene pool.

  Dad was lucky. He also had a good doctor. They’d finished with his annual exam and Dad was literally on his way out the door when he realized he’d forgotten something.

  “I forgot to mention a new mole on one of my toes,” he told the doctor. “Would you mind taking a look at it?”

  “That has to come off,” the doctor said when he saw it. 

  “When?”

  “Right now,” he replied, reaching for his scalpel.  

  The mole was a melanoma, the most dangerous type of skin cancer. If Dad hadn’t remembered to have the doctor check it and the doctor hadn’t acted decisively, my father’s life could have been shortened by a couple of decades.

  The mole under my collarbone looked disturbingly like photos of melanomas on medical websites. Still, having always been lucky with this sort of thing, I wasn’t all that worried. It was probably nothing. 

  To make sure, I sent a picture of it to my dermatologist. Because this sort of thing runs in the family, I’ve been seeing her for a number of years now. I’d sent her photos of other moles from time to time, and she always said they were nothing to worry about.

  This time was different.

  “Hello, I’m calling from the dermatology office,” a voice on the phone said.

  I waited for the usual report; the doctor had looked at the picture, and her assistant was calling to tell me to not to worry. It was nothing  serious.

  Instead, she surprised me by saying that “the doctor would like you to come in to have it evaluated.”

  This was something new. I’ve probably sent the doctor three or four pictures through the years, and not once had she expressed concern. No big deal, no need to make an appointment. Now she wanted me to come in to be evaluated. You don’t think of the word “evaluated” as being worrisome, until it is.

  An appointment was made for the following week. That may have been the hardest part. From my perspective, it would have been preferable to have hung up the phone and gone in right away. Instead, there’d be eight days to wait and worry.

  Not constantly, of course, but worry has a way of returning when you aren’t expecting it. You’re reading a book, watching a movie, working on a project or otherwise not thinking about what’s bothering  you, and suddenly the questions come:

  “What if it isn’t nothing?”

  “What if it’s something really serious?”

  “What if I discovered it too late?”

  Such were the thoughts that returned repeatedly over the course of those eight days. It didn’t help that a friend said he’d known two people who had died from melanomas. 

  The morning of the appointment came with a mixture of relief and apprehension. Relief that the wait was over, apprehension over what the diagnosis might be.

  The doctor said she was concerned when she saw the picture I sent her, but upon examining me in person found the mole to be    harmless. No need to remove it or treat it in any way. I’d been worried for nothing.

  The eight days of worrying served a purpose, though. Worrying that you could have something potentially life-threatening gives you a fresh appreciation of the obvious – that you won’t live forever. And maybe not even as long as you’d casually assumed.

 An occasional reminder of your mortality motivates you to make the most of the time you have left, to do things you’ve been wanting to do – things you should do – but have been putting off.

  In the short term, I’d like to lose a few pounds, do some projects around the house and see the three U.S. states I haven’t visited. Longterm goals are more challenging: becoming a better husband, father and grandfather, a better friend, a better person. 

  If those things can be accomplished, I’ll rest easier if and when a worrisome health concern turns out not to be nothing.

Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com.