So, it’s just about two years ago that my pink spot made an appearance on my right knee. You know, it’s so funny because when it first sprang out of my skin, I didn’t know that it was some weird form of skin cancer. I didn’t know that it was something that needed to be cut out of my flesh as soon as possible. I didn’t know that it was going to change my life in so many ways, big and small (although sometimes it still feels like it was something that happened to someone else).
In short, because it wasn’t something that looked menacing, I didn’t note down the exact “birthdate” of my Loki. All I could remember when the doctor asked was “sometime mid-February to March-ish”, which isn’t exactly a statement of precision. I wrack my brain trying to remember, did I have this on my leg running around in the rain during my first SXSW? Well damn, it was cold and rainy so I wasn’t running around wearing shorts. Can I recall it being on my leg when I got dressed up for our anniversary dinner in February? You know, I can’t even remember where the hell we went two years ago for our anniversary dinner. Was it when we went to Fleming’s in the Domain? Yeah, that’s right, we had just bought the hubby’s new car. But details of weird marks on my knee during that dinner are hazy. (I distinctly remember last year’s dinner, if that counts, because it was the first time since the excision that I put on a pair of heels.)
People say that when something changes your life, it is etched indelibly into your memory. But how odd is it that because this masqueraded as a benign lump of pink flesh, I didn’t have the date of appearance seared into my memory. The date of my phone call with the doctor telling me my diagnosis, yep that date will remain in my head. The date of the excision, same thing. But the date that really counted, the date where this thing came into the light, nada…