Two years later
Today marks two years since I had surgery on my head to remove cancer. Many people have quipped that you “can’t even tell.” My permanent combover hides the scar, as long as it’s not a windy day. But I’m very aware of the hidden tissue and the many changes it has brought to my life.
Sometime around 2020, I developed a patch of dry skin on my scalp. A biopsy revealed it was squamous cell carcinoma, and I was scheduled for a Mohs procedure. Once the site began to heal, I was left with a dime-sized patch of scar tissue that stood out, especially when my hair was wet.
After some time, I noticed that the scar tissue was changing color. I went back to the dermatologist and was initially dismissed, since I had already undergone surgical removal of cancerous tissue. But I pushed for another biopsy. When the results came back positive for melanoma, my cancer story began in earnest.
After asking a lot of questions, I made the decision to undergo a more invasive surgery to remove a larger portion of my scalp. I was eager to get the biopsy results from the removed tissue, which would determine whether enough had been taken or if further procedures would be needed.
When the good news came that they had gotten all of the cancer in the initial surgery, I was scheduled to be closed up. My head had been left open for a week while pathology was processed. I’ll spare the gory details, but closing a large hole in your scalp is no small thing. I ended up with what can only be described as a Frankenstein’s monster type of surgery, with a massive incision that corkscrewed around my head.
As I was in the early days of healing from the scalp closure, I got a call that stopped me in my tracks. On the same day as the scalp surgery, they had also removed several lymph nodes from under my right ear. I had nearly forgotten about it until I was told the biopsied lymph nodes were positive for cancer. That’s when I was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma, stage 3a.
As the reality of the diagnosis sank in, I had decisions to make about what to share, how much, and with whom. Years earlier, I had lost a friend to cancer who never shared the severity of her condition. When she passed away, many of us were stunned. That experience shaped my decision to be open and upfront with anyone who wanted to know.
Thankfully, I didn’t need to begin immunotherapy, but my treatment plan required quarterly scans. The first few PET scans were encouraging. However, scans 3 and 4 led to the discovery of an issue in my bowels and a subsequent diagnosis of serrated polyposis syndrome.
In the past 18 months, I’ve had three colonoscopies and a total of 50 polyps removed. I’m now considered high risk for colon cancer. I’m scheduled for another colonoscopy in six months and will meet with a GI doctor in December to discuss next steps. I know that colon removal is a possibility, but I’m praying it doesn’t come to that.
At present, I’m not in pain and don’t have any ongoing digestive issues. I’m trying to educate myself on the options available and take the time to consider what path is best for me. While I’m not experiencing physical discomfort, there’s no denying the emotional trauma this experience has caused.
Writing and sharing about this journey has been cathartic for me. It also opens the floodgates for public comments, many of which are unhelpful and, on occasion, even hurtful. Still, I hope that by being transparent, others might be encouraged to pay attention to their own health and to speak up for themselves, even if their concerns are initially dismissed by doctors.