collections 6:5

I don't remember much of having cancer, but I have a scar to prove it. I was seven or eight when I was diagnosed with melanoma. I remember it was in the form of a large, hairy mole on my upper right arm that continued to grow as I got older. My mother and father were scared when the doctor told them that if they didn't stop it from spreading immidiately, it would overtake too much skin to be removed with simple surgery. I could've died, had I let it grow any longer I suppose.

I remember being pushed into surgery. I lied face down, because the mole was on the back of my arm as they pumped my arm full of drugs to numb it. I was so young when my trypanophobia was broken. They did the surgery while I was awake, afraid that anesthesia and the severe blood loss I was to experience back then would kill me. The IV in my arm hurt enough as it was, but the needles pinched with a severity that made me feel as though I wouldn't make it. As the drugs took their effect, my arm become totally numb. I couldn't feel my fingers as they took the scalpal to my arm. I don't remember much the surgery- bright lights, men in surgical masks, you know the show. The thing that I remember most vividly though was whenever they cut a chunk of skin from my arm, they would place it in a small, metal tin and show it to me like it was our achievement together. Here's your reward, a slice of organic tissue festering with the cancer that coursed through you.

After the surgery, they sewed me up. The stitches stretched my skin because they didn't feel comfortable using a graft until they were certain there was no more cancer to spread. The little wires that stuck out of my skin were supposed to dissolve, but they never did, and inevitably they had to remove them. It left a huge scar on my arm that reminds me of that cancer whenever I see it, because of how much I had forgotten from my childhood since before my father died.

I never considered myself a cancer survivor until recently- it never occured to me. I was told that what I was experiencing was just a routine surgery and that I was going to be fine. They reiterated it so much, I'm disappointed that I couldn't read between the lines back then. But maybe I could and I just forgot. I don't remember being afraid though.

After the surgery, they carted me to a recovery room on a wheel chair for some reason that I didn't quite understand. It didn't matter, it was fun being in a wheel chair, alhough I didn't feel like I deserved it much. My arm was wrapped tightly and for weeks to come, I would remove it and show the stitches to my friends in order to seem cool.

Today, I don't think about it too much, except curious of whether or not it'll impact my writing career. "BEHNAM RIAHI: CANCER SURVIVOR." Yeah, whatever. Just a small woe on a much longer list, overshadowed by my more emotional struggles. I do get paranoid though, when ever I freckle. I study it almost obsessively, wondering if this will be the freckle that kills me. Growing up and becoming aware of my problems was probably the worst mistake I had ever made. I wish I didn't have this scar so the whole ordeal could've just been left in the past. Some things aren't meant to be forgotten though and I'm wondering if there's a reason I'm wondering about it so much lately.

I should probably quit smoking before the sequal comes around.