March last year I had a run in with an inconspicuous tree at Falls Creek on my mountain bike, which resulted in a fractured wrist and a snapped tendon. These two events happened months apart (the fracture and the tendon). I had the tendon repair surgery during the first week of August with 6 weeks in a cast. At this stage, you might be thinking, “What is the relevance?” Or, “My God, stop talking about cycling!”  Be patient, I’m establishing a timeline…

During this surgical recovery I would often walk to work. My work bag was a cross body bag and I noticed one day it was causing a sore spot on my left leg. It looked like cyst, which I figured, was caused by the rubbing of the edge of the bag. I adjusted the length of the bag, so it would sit a bit higher, but the ‘cyst’ didn’t go away. After a month or so I made an appointment with the GP to get it looked at. I’m going to call my GP Tom (for the record, this is not their name, but I haven’t worked with any Docs called Tom, so in the spirit of confidentiality and good writing, Tom it is). Tom suggested it didn’t feel like a cyst, but we should make an appointment to excise it. This was November 16, 2022.

The appointment for the excision was made for December 1. I arrived mentally prepared for the double-edged sting of the local anaesthetic and a forced week off the bike (see? It always comes back to cycling!). Tom had a look and decided it had shrunk, so maybe we just watch it and catch up in the new year to see how it was going. Sounded reasonable.

Skip forward six months (mind you, they were a big 6 months: Rod’s diagnosis, Rod starting immunotherapy, us having counselling, us getting back together…) and I decide the “not cyst” is annoying me and has to go. I make an appointment with Tom and we decide to remove it the week after I return from Thailand: July 27. I have known Tom for a few years; we have worked in ED together and have shared some memorable shifts! I say to him, “This better not be anything bad, there’s enough going on in our family!” and “Wait, I need to take a photo” – you get the drift. The clinic nurses are also in on this banter. Right after I’ve been sutured up and we’re discussing what it might and might not be, Tom says, “It’s definitely looks weird; it might be an atypical melanoma” *insert eyeroll. My eyeroll.

Fast forward a week (this takes us up to Monday August 7, 2023) and I get the call at work telling me I need to bring a support person to the appointment that afternoon. I really don’t want to hear those words as I figure if it was something bad, but manageable, Tom would be able to tell me without a support person. I figure it’s bad. Like, really bad. I ring Rod and tell him what’s happened and ask him to meet me at the GP clinic that afternoon. The rest of the work day is a panicked blur.

We meet outside the clinic and Rod has chocolate for me. I can’t even look at it let alone eat it (I appreciate the gesture which would usually be very welcomed!). The clinic nurse takes us in. She had recently given Hamish his Hep A vaccination for our trip to Thailand, so she’s asking about our trip and so forth. She says, “You’re here for suture removal, right?” I say, “Um, I think I’m here for bad news”  

A very sombre looking Tom comes to get us and takes us to his office where he gives us the news:  the lump was a melanoma and it’s not the primary. I say, “Ok, what’s the plan” – referral to Peter Mac is the plan – PET scan and MRI in the next week. Yikes, I’m now a patient who is getting a rapid referral. He then takes out my sutures. In my defence, I was going to suggest taking out every second suture due to the high flex area (and my huge quads…) but forget in the numbness of the situation. Sutures are out and we then go on to a full skin/lymph node check. Whilst moving from front to back, I feel my wound dehisce (open). There are no obvious primary moles/lesions nor are any of my lymph nodes enlarged. Rod and I are put in a quiet room, with paper cups of water (although I’d requested a margarita) and we sit there in disbelief. I head back for more sutures.

At this point we have probably been there for more than an hour. I send Rod home to be with Hamish and make a start on dinner. During the re-suturing I have a question for Tom: “If this is so far advanced, why am I so well?” his reply, “It just means it’s not anywhere important yet.” – OK, I’ll take that.

With new sutures in place, I wait with the clinic nurse who makes sure I’m ready to go. She starts getting teary and offers help with Hamish if we need it in the future “I know you don’t know me very well, but I have a boy Hamish’s age and I can help out. He’s such a gorgeous boy…” She’s crying. I say, “Mate, don’t you start crying, I haven’t cried yet!” – Next thing, we’re both crying and hugging. She offers me a cup of tea but I decline and say I just want to get home. She is everything we want our nurses to be and just what I needed that afternoon.

That evening I’m wading through mud. Everything seems slow and surreal – but not my brain, it is racing. I know how bad this is for one parent – but heck, there’s TWO of us with a life-threatening cancer! I lay on the couch with Rod and I blurt out whatever is in my head, in no order, and not of all it makes sense:

• “Jess will have to bring up Hamish”
• “Will they have enough money”
• “Can I die at home”
• “If this is bad, I’m quitting work and we’re going to live at the beach”
• “I’m still going to Adelaide tomorrow”
• “Can we name an award after me at work?”
• “This is bullshit”
• “I’m only flying business class from now on”

He agrees to all of my questions and as he does, I shut down tabs in my brain. It helps; but it doesn’t help us sleep and we are awake most of the night.

Cue week of the “Australian College of Nursing” conference in Adelaide (the very next day). Poor Georgia got me at my worst – up and down, tired, sore leg, phone calls from Peter Mac, but she was there for me when I needed someone and she has been amazing. I probably had a better week than Rod, as I was at least busy and (mostly) distracted with the conference and just being in Glenelg. I took the path report with me to Adelaide, but I didn’t have the courage to read it for a few days (then I had to google the things I had no idea about):

• Less than 1 cm
• NRAS – this is the gene mutation, this is how they match treatment/drugs/therapies
• Rapid mitotic rate (cells growing quickly)
• TILs – tumour infiltrating lymphocytes (this is my own immune system doing it’s job, lymphocytes in and around the tumour, keeping it in check. TILs is also a new cellular therapy/treatment).

Peter Mac made appointments for me for a PET scan the following week in Melbourne and a brain MRI at work a few days after that. Long story short: the scans showed nothing. Rod and I cried when the surgeon told us this news – obviously we were expecting the worst and to have NOTHING was just short of a miracle! Whilst there may be some melanoma cells in my system, they are not numerous enough to be detected at this point and I put that down to my immune system which has been doing a fabulous job. Go you good thing!

Hopefully this blog puts everything into a bit of chronological order and offers a well-rounded perspective. I’ll post later this week about treatment options and then we’re completely up to date. Thank you to everyone who has messaged, called, taken me out for coffee and just basically offered support. I am so lucky to have you in my life and when I need it, I’ll definitely reach out. I promise.

Much love, Bel