Some thoughts on "curing cancer"

Image: www.e-magineart.com.

Cancer researchers everywhere dubbed 2011 as the year for melanoma. Two new drugs,  ipilimumab and vemurafenib, were approved by the FDA to treat advanced stages of the disease, making them the first new melanoma drugs in 13 years (that's a long time in cancer land). Just this week, MSNBC published an article called, "New melanoma drug - a turning point against cancer?" Of course, this is great news. Melanoma has been, for a long time, one of the most elusive cancers to scientists.

But (yes, there is always a but)--as news of a new melanoma drugs becomes more mainstream, I fear that the public will develop misconceptions that tanning is safe again. Although most news articles clearly state that we're still far from a cure, people seem to have great faith in the powers of science to "cure cancer" before it can hurt them. For example, when I was in college, I remember asking a fellow tanner if she ever worried about the potential side effects from UV radiation.

"We're all going to get cancer anyway," she said. "And besides, by the time I'm 80, they'll probably have a cure for cancer anyway."

"You don't worry about getting wrinkles either?"

"Um, hello. Botox?"

Years later, this conversation has stuck with me because it epitomizes the way we rationalize our use of tanning beds: "Yes, tanning can cause cancer, but it won't happen to me." Or, "Yes, tanning causes cancer, but it won't happen until I'm older." It was around the time I had this conversation that my grandfather was diagnosed with skin cancer. Years of playing golf and vacationing in warm climates wrecked havoc on his face and scalp. To this day, he's had more lesions removed than I can count on both fingers and toes. Hearing about my grandpa's run-in with skin cancer scared me, but it didn't scare me completely out of the sun. My grandpa was old. Things like that happened to old people.

From that point on, every time I laid down in that acrylic bed and pulled down the clam-shell lid, I was able to make peace with the fact that someday I too would probably be diagnosed with skin cancer. That is, if I hadn't already died from a heart attack, stroke, or breast cancer. If something was going to kill me, I thought, I might as well look beautiful and have fun while I'm young.

I never thought I would be diagnosed with melanoma less than 10 years after I started tanning. And I'm not the only one. My friends over at the Glenna Kohl Fund for Hope sent me a great article today from Providence College's The Cowl about a former teenage "tanorexic" turned melanoma prevention advocate (like me!) When I read about Megan Rothschild, I felt like I was reading about myself. In the article, Megan is quoted saying:

"In my mind, I thought 'I'm not going to get melanoma. I'm not going to get skin cancer.' People told me that I looked dark and maybe I should go get my skin checked out, but my mentality was if I was going to get cancer it would be when I was 70. At that time, I felt invincible."

I think she hits the nail right on the head there, going on to say: "There's still this conception that [melanoma] is an 'easy' cancer. It used to be most common among older men because of their habitual golfing, but it's actually becoming a young woman's cancer now."

So let's celebrate the fact that every day we're inching closer to a time when advanced-stage melanoma will no longer be a death sentence. Let's just also keep in mind that regardless of what breakthroughs come out of the labs, we shouldn't delude ourselves into thinking that suntanning is safe.

Guilt trip

A blonder, tanner version of myself.

Last weekend, I went out to dinner with a good friend of mine who beat testicular cancer shortly before I had my run-in with melanoma. At dinner, I felt disgustingly selfish when we were exchanging cancer stories. How could my stage I melanoma compare to my friend losing his hair during intense rounds of chemotherapy? I feel the same way when I read about young women like Chelsea Price, a fellow blogger and stage III melanoma survivor. She has more scars than I can count and is participating in a clinical trial for a new melanoma drug. It's like I'm swimming in the kiddie pool while these guys are diving in the deep end. Not that I want to be in the deep end by any means, but I worry that people will look at me and think: yes, melanoma is just a skin cancer that you can cut out and be done with.


Not so much. In addition to the three-inch chunk of flesh I had removed (and the $3,000 it cost me after insurance), there's been an overwhelming feeling of guilt that's haunted me every day since my diagnosis. Recently, I mentioned that I was writing a short story for teenagers about why tanning beds are evil. As I wrote, I asked a few friends to take a look at my drafts. They all had wonderful, insightful feedback that was able to incorporate into my final draft, but one comment in particular stuck out to me. In my essay, I wrote that I had been "lucky" to catch my melanoma before it progressed past stage I. It's something numerous doctors have told me and that I've told myself over and over. But what if I hadn't been so lucky? What makes me so different than all these other 20-somethings who didn't catch their cancer early? These were some of the questions I was grappling with in the days and months following my diagnosis. It actually wasn't until this week, sitting down and writing this short essay and reaching out to my friends for feedback, that I realized the impact of these feelings. My friend Liz said to me:

"Something that wasn't in the piece was the depth to your emotions when you were first diagnosed. I remember that you literally fell of the face of the earth, you didn't go out as much, you weren't as social, and it was difficult to even have a conversation with you over text messages, even. I feel like you were really scared that you could die. I know those emotions may be a little heavy in the short piece that you wrote, but saying that you 'were lucky' could give some teenagers who think they are invincible the impression that it's super easy to be cured of skin cancer and to move on with your life."

Liz's comment immediately made me rethink my strategy. Yes, of course I was lucky that I caught my cancer early. That doesn't mean that melanoma doesn't SUCK. Having a doctor tell me that I had melanoma shook me to my core. I never thought that tanning in my teens could have killed me in my 20s. But it can, and it does. Melanoma has become the most frequently diagnosed cancer for young adults aged 25 to 29, second only to breast cancer for women aged 15 to 29. Tanning bed use can increase a person's risk for developing melanoma by 75%, and yet indoor tanning is still a $5 billion per year industry, up from $1 billion in 1992.


Just for the record, when I talk about my melanoma, I'm not looking for a pity party. A prevention party maybe (ha!) but definitely not a pity party. Since I started doing some research and sharing my experiences with anyone who will listen, I've discovered a wonderful network of people whose lives have also been impacted by skin cancer. I've also had my fair share of run-ins with people who listen to my story and still choose to tan. Giving up UV tanning and living the "pretty in pale" lifestyle is easier said than done. Trust me. I get it. But if my story resonates with just one person and they change their behavior because of me, then somehow it seems like all this guilt will have been worth it.