THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 3, 1994 TAG: 9406300213
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 03 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Coastwise
SOURCE: Ford Reid
LENGTH: Medium: 75 lines
When the subject of skin cancer came up, I scoffed.
If it were really such a problem, I argued, no construction worker, farmer or commercial fisherman would live beyond the age of 40. These people are out in the sun all day, every day. If that gives you cancer, why don't all of them have it?
Then, last winter, I was hit with a heavy dose of reality.
I went to the doctor with another, unrelated problem. Examining me, he noticed an ugly spot on my back and sent me to the dermatologist.
I figured that while I was there I might as well have him take a look at a place on my forehead. He did biopsies of both growths.
The results were not good.
The place on my back was basal cell, the most common kind of skin cancer. It would require surgery to remove it, but beyond the annoyance and the pain of getting cut it was not a major concern.
The place on my forehead was malignant melanoma, the kind of skin cancer that easily spreads to the lymph nodes, the lungs, the liver and other organs.
Malignant melanoma, the kind of skin cancer that can kill you.
My first reaction was shock. Skin cancer? Me? I had read about all of the categories of people most likely to get it and I didn't think I fit into any of them.
But all of the doctors - the dermatologist, the surgeon, the oncologist - said the same thing: I fit the profile.
I had never thought of myself as fair skinned. I don't burn easily and I'm not blond. But apparently, my Celtic roots run as shallow as my skin as well as deep as my soul.
My next reaction was anger.
Anger with myself. The first question that each doctor asked when he looked at the place on my forehead was: ``How long has that been there?''
I couldn't remember.
I had known for some time that I ought to get it looked at - and my wife kept reminding me - but I ignored it and suddenly it might be about to kill me.
The third reaction was amusement with the irony.
I have not always taken the best care of my body and my liver and my lungs have been two of my most abused organs. After all of those cigarettes, all of that whiskey, it was suntan that might do me in.
The operation was a success and I am feeling fine. In a week or so, I go in for the periodic tests to determine whether the cancer has spread. I have no reason to believe that the results will not be negative.
I am well into my first summer of avoiding the sun. It is something I never thought about before. I never sought a tan, but I never avoided one either.
From May until late September, I lived in shorts and T-shirts. I had never used suntan lotion.
``Your days of worshipping the sun are over, I'm afraid,'' the oncologist said last winter and, I'm sad to say, he was right.
I have, perhaps, overreacted. I wear long pants and long sleeve shirts. I try to stay in the shade, especially between about 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. When I do go out, I use a 40 sun screen. I would use a 140 if I could find it.
There is no proven cause of melanoma, although many researchers suspect some combination of genetics and exposure to the sun's ultra violet rays. What they do know is that people from the North who move to the South - say Swedes who immigrate to Arizona - seem to get it more often than anyone else.
But my surgeon says it is worth the trouble of staying out of the sun to avoid basal cell, and he is right.
I'm not writing this to put a damper on anyone's time on the beach. You will have to decide what is safe and comfortable for you.
My message is this: If you do get a place that appears suspicious, go see a doctor immediately.
It could save your life. by CNB