The third thing

On the heels of my car accident and my husband’s spinal cord contusion, the universe has confirmed that bad things do, in fact, come in threes

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Last Thursday, I shared my Very Bad Week with my membership community. The TL;DR: I was rear-ended on the highway (sustaining a second concussion), and my husband had a scary brush with a spinal cord injury during jiu-jitsu. I joked about bad things coming in threes, and wondered if my third thing was still to come.

Spoiler: It was. Because it turns out I also have skin cancer. Don’t worry, though! It’s the most common and least bad kind, which (if you read the last newsletter, do you see a theme here) is a blessing. The diagnosis, delivered via telephone by a very patient nurse, was “basal cell carcinoma,” discovered in a routine skin check with my dermatologist. It’s the kind of cancer that almost never spreads, almost never goes deeper into bones or lymph nodes, doesn’t usually return, and is easy to treat.

But, like, STILL.

The science of three

Interlude—do bad things really come in threes? Is there any sort of science behind this? Yes, but no. There is nothing behind the number “three” other than the meaning we assign to it. In general, any kind of randomness makes the human brain deeply uncomfortable. As such, humans are naturally inclined to seek out patterns, especially in misfortune.

Psychologists say the belief in “threes” persists because our brains crave certainty. By creating a limit on events (three), we see an end to a run of bad luck or deaths, which feels comforting. I’m sure if the saying was “bad things come in fours,” I’d easily be able to find another bad thing to add to my run.

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The backstory

I’ve been going to the dermatologist every two years for routine skin checks since I moved to Utah. I’m careful about sun exposure, don’t burn easily, and have no family history, but it’s one of those adulty things that felt prudent to keep up with.

Last summer while hiking, my sister noticed a small skin-colored lump on my inner forearm. She asked out loud what it was. “Huh,” I replied, “I think it started as a burn from cooking oil, but now it’s just a weird spot.” If I knew anything about signs of skin cancer, I would have realized this thing was saying, “HELLO I AM NOT NORMAL.” But I didn’t, and since my screening the year before was fine, I didn’t think twice. (I wish I had a photo of it, but who has pictures of their inner forearm?)

When I found myself back in the dermatologist’s office two weeks ago, I also pointed to this spot, noting it seemed to be scabbed over often and occasionally bleeding. I wrote it off to the location, figuring as I slide my work bag over my arm or carry my groceries, it just gets scraped. (Per the Mayo Clinic’s entry on basal cell carcinoma: “A shiny, skin-colored bump… the bump may bleed and scab over.” HELLO BUT LOUDER.)

The doctor inspected the spot, but gave nothing away. Surely he must have realized? Maybe he didn’t want to freak me out. I mentioned two other small moles that were getting irritated because of their placement under my sports bra, and he suggested we remove all three. After the visit, his attending said, “We send everything off for biopsy. If it’s nothing, you’ll get a letter. If it’s something, we’ll call you.” I paid, left, and promptly forgot about it.

Spoiler: They called

Until today, when the dermatologist office’s name popped up on caller ID. “Oh sh*t,” I said out loud as I answered the phone. The nice person on the other end calmly said, “The two moles we took from your chest came back normal. The spot on your forearm came back as a basal cell carcinoma.”

I sat without speaking for a moment, then googled “basal cell carcinoma how bad” while still on the phone with the nurse. She explained they would use a non-surgical procedure to remove it, then asked if I had any questions. “A dozen,” I replied, “but nothing that can’t be answered on skincancer.org.”

I spent the next half-hour learning everything I should have already known about skin cancer: the risk factors, warning signs, self-checks, and all of the ways you can protect yourself. I talked with my husband, and we decided this was the best possible kind of cancer news, if one had to receive cancer news. I’d up my skin checks to annually instead of every other year, I’d be even more vigilant about sun protection, and we’d consider ourselves lucky.

To repeat the mantra of last week’s newsletter: If this is the worst thing that happens to me today, I’m doing okay.

What does this mean

I will never force anyone, including myself, into gratitude. It’s counterproductive to shame or bully yourself into discovering a silver lining if you haven’t yet moved through the anger, grief, or unfairness of (waves hands around in a general fashion). Also, people who casually reply with, “well, everything happens for a reason” deserve a metaphorical kick to the shins.

But this week, on the heels of three this-could-have-been-so-much-worse events in a row, I find myself effortlessly and solidly standing on a foundation of gratitude. Do I think these things happened for a reason? I do not. Accident happens. Bad shit happens. Cancer happens. There is only a reason if you choose to assign it one.

I am not assigning reason, but I am counting my blessings. My car is being repaired. My concussion is getting better. My husband’s neck is healing. My skin cancer will be removed, and now I better know how to prevent it, and how to spot the early signs.

Maybe writing about it here will prompt some of you to learn more about skin cancer, call for that dermatology appointment you’ve been meaning to book, and recommit to daily skin protection. Could that be a reason? Maybe! If my introspection trends in that direction, I’ll let you know.

For now, I’m just happy my run of three is over. In fact, after my dermatology call, I said (out loud) to God, “Okay, so I’ve got cancer now, which means we’re done with cancer, right? Like, this is my cancer. No more cancers. Just so we’re clear.” I can only assume he agreed. God is always a “he” when he’s being obtuse, but it NEEDS TO WORK LIKE THIS OKAY?

XO Melissa

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