I knew that there was something wrong, despite what I’d been told by doctors (Image: Tyler Mears)
In 2021, I realised my dream of relocating to the seaside. My partner and me took a leap of faith, packed up our belongings and moved to Pembrokeshire.
It was incredible. Our evenings were filled with sea swims, beach barbecues and lengthy strolls. After battling health issues for several years (I was diagnosed with lupus and kidney failure in 2017), it was the tranquil, joyful life we had longed for. But just a few months into our new life, our world was turned upside down once more.
A mole on my leg had been a source of concern for years. But I’d already consulted two doctors about it. They assured me it was nothing to be concerned about. They diagnosed it as a benign tumour known as a fibroma, possibly triggered by an insect bite. So I kept dismissing it. The doctors are the experts, aren’t they?
But I couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. The mole continued to grow, began changing colour and (as unpleasant as it sounds) started to become crusty and itchy.
I had been concerned about wasting doctors’ time by going back again about my mole (Image: Tyler Mears)
I considered revisiting the doctor but was concerned about wasting their time. A few weeks later, I was working from home on a beautiful sunny day, wearing a summer dress. As I reclined in my chair, I glanced down at my leg. The angry-looking mole glared back at me.
I decided then and there to take the plunge and contact my GP. That summer dress may well have saved my life. As soon as I revealed the mole to my GP, her concerned expression affirmed that I had made the right choice. She referred me to a specialist who appeared equally troubled and wanted to schedule me for a mole removal procedure.
Despite my concerns, I refused to let my thoughts drift towards the terrifying possibility of cancer. I kept reassuring myself: “It’s an insect bite but we’re just making sure.”
So when the specialist suggested surgery the following week, I naively asked if it could be postponed due to my best friend’s 30th birthday party.
The specialist looked me directly in the eyes and insisted that the procedure needed to be done immediately. At that moment, I knew deep down it wasn’t merely an insect bite. The subsequent weeks were a daze. I underwent the surgery under local anaesthetic, and the mole was placed in a test tube for a biopsy.
The mole on my leg (Image: Tyler Mears)
A follow-up appointment was scheduled for a month later to discuss the results. However, a few weeks later, I received a call requesting me to come in earlier. The woman on the phone advised me to bring someone along. My heart sank and I instantly knew what they were going to tell me.
I felt like a frightened child. What are they going to say? Who should I bring with me? How will I break the news if it is cancer?
I chose to bring my mum. Mainly because the thought of having to tell her myself was shattering my heart into countless pieces.
We entered the doctor’s office together and immediately I sensed something was off from the grim expression on the doctor’s face. My heart ached in anticipation of the devastating news my mother was about to receive.
After all the anguish she’s endured with my lupus diagnosis, it pained me to think of her facing more torment. Throughout it all, my parents and fiancé have been pillars of strength but could they handle yet another blow?
We took our seats and the doctor prefaced his explanation with: “There’s no easy way to say this.”
He proceeded to inform us that I had been diagnosed with a malignant melanoma, stage 2B. It sounded grave and he advised against Googling it.
Curiously, he refrained from uttering the word ‘cancer’, opting instead for clinical jargon. But clarity was what I needed: “So, it’s cancer then?” He replied: “Yes.”
Right then, survival instincts kicked in; emotions were locked away. I couldn’t bear to meet my mothers gaze, knowing it would unravel me completely.
After my first skin cancer surgery (Image: Tyler Mears)
The whole experience felt surreal. Maintaining composure, poised in my chair, I addressed the situation head-on: “Okay, it’s cancer. What do we do now?”
Exiting the hospital with a stack of Macmillan leaflets adorned with images of cancer patients, I broke the news to my father who was waiting in the car. Unlike the doctor, I chose to use the term ‘cancer’, refusing to fear it.
The task of informing my fiancé, friends and extended family fell upon me and my parents. The support from these incredible individuals was invaluable. A few weeks later, I underwent further surgery. Due to the depth of my melanoma, additional skin had to be removed around it.
A lymph node biopsy would then decide my future. If the cancer had spread to my lymph nodes, the prognosis, as far as I understood, wouldn’t be positive.
I visited the radiotherapy department at Singleton Hospital in Swansea, spending an hour under a scanner. They injected dye into my body and marked out the lymph node in my groin for removal. To pass the time, I found myself counting the ceiling tiles, restarting several times after losing count.
Subsequently, I attended a different hospital for more surgery on my leg and groin. The surreal atmosphere of the waiting room, with This Morning playing on the TV and people casually reading magazines, oddly comforted me.
The scar after my second round of surgery (Image: Tyler Mears)
I kept telling myself: “Look how normal all this is.”
Post-surgery, it was a matter of waiting. The most challenging part of the entire dreadful ordeal was maintaining a semblance of normalcy waking up, preparing breakfast, doing household chores, all while waiting for news that could potentially be life-threatening. I tried to remain composed and resilient, but the fear would wash over me in waves.
Every time a melancholic song played, I found myself contemplating if it could be played at my funeral. One evening, a cancer plotline on television triggered an uncontrollable bout of tears. A few weeks later, I was summoned back. The dread gnawing at my insides was overwhelming. It felt as though it would engulf me if I allowed it. I kept suppressing those dark thoughts.
This time, my mother wasn’t permitted to accompany me. So, I went in alone. The doctor who had performed the surgery — a truly kind individual — informed me that the operation had been successful. She looked at me with a comforting smile and told me the cancer hadn’t spread.
Me after coming out of my second skin cancer surgery dosed up on morphine (Image: Tyler Mears)
The intense dread that had been eating away at me transformed into profound relief. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
Despite the positive outcome, the emotional trauma of experiencing a cancer scare doesn’t just disappear. There are still days when I am consumed by panic and anxiety.
For the next five years, I have to undergo monitoring every three months where they examine all my moles. It’s peculiar — I never really paid attention to how many I had before. Without intending to sound impolite, my bum is absolutely dotted with them!
Naturally, there’s always the risk of the cancer returning. Approximately one in 10 individuals who receive a negative lymph node biopsy result still pass away within a decade.
However, due to the incredible NHS and a budget summer dress I purchased from Primark, I was fortunate enough not to be among the 3,200 people who lost their lives to skin cancer this year. For that, I am eternally grateful and feel incredibly fortunate.
So, I implore you, if you discover a mole and have any worries don’t delay. Trust your gut feeling. Be one of the fortunate ones like me.