I Told You I Was Sick

By Jane Farrell

It’s said that as people get older, they worry more and more about their health. Not me. I’ve been worrying my entire life. I see danger in every spot, cough, cut, throb and bump. As a sarcastic friend once said, “Why have a headache when a brain tumor will do?”

A few months ago, though, something did get past my early-warning system. I saw a dark spot underneath my left thumbnail, and I didn’t do anything about it. I let it go for about six weeks, and then it occurred to me that it wasn’t any better. I chewed and pressed my nail (I do stupid things like that), but nothing about it seemed to change. I searched Google, the hypochondriac’s best friend, for “spot beneath nail” – and I found that it could be an early symptom of melanoma.

Then I searched for images of “melanoma spot beneath nail,” and while most of them looked way more terrifying than my own nail, there were several that were similar enough for me to go into panic mode.

I called my dermatologist, who has always demonstrated a wonderfully unusual combination of bluntness and kindness. He never forgets my name; he touches my shoulder reassuringly. At the same time, he’s looked at a spot and said, “Well, it’s either a benign growth or early skin cancer.” (It was a benign growth.)

This time, he took one look at my nail and said, “Could be melanoma.” Since I had done some research, I wasn’t entirely shocked. But at the same time, my stomach dropped.

“What do we do?” I said.

“We could biopsy it right now,” he said. “But that would involve taking off the entire nail. That’s very, very painful.”  Direct, as always. “But I’m not sure it is melanoma.”

My stomach returned to its normal position.

Instead of an immediate biopsy, he recommended that we wait six weeks and see if the spot changed size or location.

For me, that was almost as scary as a biopsy. Like most patients, I want an answer, I want it now, and I want it to be a good one. How could I possibly bear a six-week spell of uncertainty?

The nurse took a photograph of my nail and measured the spot – and the wait began.

How did I handle it? I bought a giant oatmeal raisin cookie after I left the doctor’s office. I ordered some stuff that I hoped would soothe me, including an orange ceramic cat. That was one unfortunate purchase, let me tell you. I looked at my nail every single morning – if I’m really being honest, every half hour or so – and couldn’t tell if it was moving, shrinking or otherwise manifesting some kind of change.

I bought a few more giant cookies.

After a month, though, I thought the spot looked different. Not bigger – a little smaller – and it seemed to be making its way toward the top of my nail. I checked the photo I had taken after the appointment (you thought I wouldn’t take my own photo?) and yes! It was moving as the nail grew out.

As my followup appointment drew closer, I was as happy as if I were going to the doctor’s office to be given my lottery winnings.  And guess what? I was right.

“Absolutely not melanoma,” my dermatologist said. “Some good news to start your week.” Instead of melanoma, the spot turned out to be dried blood, from one of my many clumsy moves. (I tend to bump into furniture a lot.) Now it’s gone from my nail entirely.

I bought a giant cookie to celebrate.

What did I learn from all this? Simply enough, that a dark spot beneath the nail can be nothing – or something.  These spots, under nails on the hand and toe, are an especially bad sign for people of color; reggae legend Bob Marley died of melanoma that began with a spot under his toenail. So don’t be afraid to have anything suspicious checked out ASAP.

I also learned that nails change infinitesimally, day by day, and you can’t always see it. A life lesson in other areas, I guess. Change happens slowly and then all of a sudden you’re there.

My sarcastic friend would have undoubtedly cracked, “Why have a dried blood spot when a melanoma will do?” And I would have laughed, sort of. But I did the right thing. I wouldn’t have tried to convince her that I was at death’s door and that she really needed to listen to me. I just went to the doctor. And you should do that, too.

I mean, no one wants to end up with my favorite headstone saying of all time: “I Told You I Was Sick.”

Jane Farrell, co-editor-in-chief of thirdAge, tries not to worry every day. Sometimes she succeeds.