Quarter-life crisis, pt. 2

 "You are your own worst enemy. If you can learn to stop expecting impossible perfection, from yourself and others, you may find the happiness that has always eluded you." -Lisa Kleypas

"Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving." -Emma Bombeck

In 2008, I faced a textbook case of quarter-life crisis-itis. My dream of becoming a writer in NYC was shattered after I spent three months interning in the publishing industry and didn't love it. Was it glamorous? Sort of. Was it meaningful? Not in the way I had hoped.

Ultimately, I decided to move back to my hometown of Portland, Oregon (free rent!) and "temped" with a variety of companies until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I spent time at a finance company, a small creative agency, and a nonprofit before ending up at my current employer--OHSU--in January 2010. What I appreciate about my job is that I've had the potential for growth, and my boss has been incredibly supportive of my extracurricular activities--from planning countless fundraising events to traveling to DC to review grants like I did earlier this week.

If you're a regular reader, you may have noticed that I've been a bit quieter than usual over the past few months. I've been super busy reviewing grants, planning bachelorette parties, and taking online classes, but I've also been doing some serious self reflection. I've been calling it quarter-life crisis: part two.

Last spring, I accomplished more in the realm of melanoma education and advocacy than I had ever hoped--I helped raise $40,000 for melanoma research and got to meet our governor who thanked me for sharing my story about melanoma and tanning beds.

When I started this blog, I admit, I had some selfish motivations: I still felt like I was the one who gave myself cancer and that I didn't deserve to be as "lucky" as I have been. Every time I log onto Facebook, I see posts from friends who are dealing with brain metastasis or who have lost a loved one to melanoma. It kills me to see this, especially when I'm still hearing so many people brush off skin cancer like it's no big deal. My motivation for blogging, for planning the Portland Melanoma Walk, and for sharing my story on as many public forums as possible, has been driven largely in part by good old-fashioned guilt. And, I'm actually very pleased to report, that at some point over the past six months or so, that guilt has finally lifted. Somehow, by serving this sort of self-imposed penance, I have come to terms with what happened to me, and I don't blame myself any more.

What does that mean? It's taken months for me to put this into words, and I'm still a little unsure. As I mentioned, I've been doing a lot of reflection on what my next steps should be in life. While I've wanted to go back to school to pursue a master's degree for a while, up until recently, I felt like there was something holding me back. I'm still not 100% certain what direction I want my life to take, but it may or may not involve a bit of a break from melanoma advocacy. Rest assured, I'm still organizing the Portland Melanoma Walk this spring (May 31, 2014 - save the date!), and I plan to continue blogging, but I don't want melanoma to get in the way of my life any more than it already has.

Thank you to all of you who have been so supportive of me throughout this journey. Several of you I've had a chance to meet with in person, but for those of you I only know "virtually," your kind words and support still mean more to me than you know.

Forgive me, I have sinned

Several years ago, I was staffing a booth at a corporate health and wellness fair. Throughout the morning, I heard rumors from the other volunteers that there was a "real live melanoma patient" in one of the booths on the other side of the tent. They encouraged me to swing by and check it out.

A cancer patient? I just had to sneak over there and ogle like she was an animal at the zoo. I can't remember how old she was, but she was deliberately covered by a hat, sitting in the shade, flanked by posters with up-close shots of clearly malignant moles.

If I ever got skin cancer like her, I remember thinking to myself, I would never go outside in the sun again.

After my melanoma diagnosis, of course I've been more diligent with the sunscreen. I haven't touched a tanning bed in years. But I still make mistakes. This weekend, we had sun in Portland for the first time in months (I'm not exaggerating). My girlfriends and I had planned a tour of Oregon wine country back in March, so we were elated with the 75 degree weather. When I was ready to head out of my apartment, I purposely tossed a bottle of designer SPF in my bag. I even contemplated sending out an obnoxious "Don't forget your sunscreen" tweet.

Somehow, over the course of the afternoon, I ended up forgetting to actually put on my sunscreen. Maybe it was the fact that we were inside and out, we sat mostly in the shade, the pinot went to my head.... or maybe I was just having fun with my friends and didn't want to be "that girl" who always lectures everyone on sun safety.

Whatever the reason, when we stumbled into my friend's house at around 6 p.m., my arms were bright pink. So there it was: the girl who spends hours writing about the dangers of UV radiation had given herself a good old fashioned sunburn. Immediately, I felt guilty. Stolen moments outside sans the SPF really are sort of a guilty pleasure. I'm like a recovering alcoholic relishing a sip of ice-cold vodka, but then regretting it when I wake up with a hangover in the morning.

I think the point I'm trying to make is that melanoma patients and survivors--we're humans, too. We screw up sometimes and we want to go to the beach just as much as you do. I understand why you want to be tan, so please understand why I have to be a total nerd with my SPF 50. And just remember: we all used to think, that would never happen to me.

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.