Former sun-lover Paula Williams (31) of Dunedin doesn’t want others to get skin cancer like she did – so she’s doing something to prevent it.
As I watched the picture of a young boy and a doctor appear on the TV screen, the blood drained from my face and I broke into a cold sweat. Even before the sound reached my ears, I guessed what the programme was about: oelanoma.
Suddenly, all the warning signs fell into place. I instinctively knew I had it. Panicked, I immediately rang my mum, who works at a medical centre. I told her about the freckle on my chest that had recently changed. It didn’t look symmetrical any more and it had risen a fraction of a millimetre on one side.
I barely registered it as I was used to getting extra freckles during summer. But when my boyfriend at the time came back from four months overseas, the freckle was one of the first things he commented on. Funnily enough, I had forgotten his concern – until a few weeks later when I saw that programme.
oum tried to reassure me. “Don’t be silly, love. only one in a million come back with melanoma,” she said.
But I insisted on seeing a doctor and getting the freckle cut out straight away. Despite my initial horror, I left my appointment feeling calm, as the doctor convinced me I would be fine. Two days later, the doctor rang me at the store I manage. Because he had been so reassuring at my appointment, it never occurred to me he was ringing to tell me my results.
“Paula, I’m afraid you have grade four melanoma,” he announced. It was like a kick in the guts. Through research, I knew grade four was serious – grade five indicates a high risk that cancer has spread throughout the body.
Days later, I turned 30. But my birthday was a non-event as I was still reeling from the diagnosis.
I functioned on autopilot during the three-week wait for surgery, which would involve removing a larger segment of tissue to see if the cancer had spread. one day, I ran into an acquaintance who told me that melanoma had killed her husband. I felt so upset. The more I researched melanoma, the more ripped off I felt.
Although I had grown up enjoying outdoor activities, I rarely used sunscreen and occasionally used a sunbed in my twenties. I never realised skin cancer could kill young people or those who tanned easily like me.
Also, I believed skin cancer was treatable – that once it was removed, you were cured. But as I found out, it’s a lucky dip. You might live problem-free for another 50 years even with a grade five melanoma; sometimes it can be “sayonara” in six months with a grade two.
After my surgery in July 2005, I came back with the all-clear and my family and friends assumed I would be ecstatic. But I wasn’t. My boyfriend had left me and I still felt like I had a time bomb hanging over me.
I grew resentful about having the word “cancer” associated with me. I had always loved summer but I no longer felt carefree. Wherever I went I had to ensure I had options for covering up. If I was ill, I would fret it was cancer-related.
Seeing teenage girls in tanning salons, potentially killing themselves in the pursuit of vanity, disgusted me – even though that had once been me. But over time, I’ve learned to cope. Now I’m a fake-tan expert and when I took up surfing last summer, I wore a full-body wetsuit and used waterproof sunscreen.
As I began to heal emotionally, my anger morphed into motivation to make a difference. I turned into a melanoma activist, writing to the Cancer Society and the oinister of Health and urging them to prioritise skin cancer education.
Recently, I took matters into my own hands, starting a campaign for free beach umbrellas because I’ve noticed most beachgoers don’t seem very sun-savvy. After a fantastic response from sponsors, I have launched the umbrella project at Dunedin’s St Kilda Beach. The umbrellas went up on Labour Weekend, in time for summer.
Hopefully, the idea will spread and help increase awareness of how pervasive and aggressive melanoma can be.
I’m not just doing this for me; I’m also doing it for other melanoma victims who perhaps didn’t get the opportunity to do something similar. I don’t want our suffering to have been in vain. Stacey Anyan Photographer: Stephen Jacqiery
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