Melanoma: the Musical

In 2003, back when Brad and I were cute and in love and felt the need to celebrate our anniversary, I bought us tickets to see a Broadway show playing in Detroit (side note: fifteen years later, we are less cute, more in love, and less inclined to make a big deal about our anniversary when every day together is just so good). But I digress…

I got tickets to The Producers, which is a show about two men who purposely put on the worst musical they can find in order to scam their investors when it flops. So they produce something called Springtime for Hitler, only—to their chagrin—it is a huge hit and they can’t get it to close. It’s a clever show, and Brad and I enjoyed it, but then we always enjoy a good musical. One of the best trips we ever took was the three days in London where we saw five West End shows. That’s my kind of vacation.

But I digress again…

Mel Brooks (who wrote The Producers) thought Springtime for Hitler was the worst title imaginable for a Broadway show, and I’ll admit that’s pretty bad. But I may have one even worse.

Melanoma: The Musical.

In my family, we have something my siblings call “the chip.” Some of us are hard-wired to be able to come up with a song for any occasion. ANY occasion. It started with my mother, who used to light up our kitchen with goodies like “Old Man River”, “Honky Tonk Woman,” and my personal favorite “Short’Nin’ Bread” (I still can’t reach for a can of Crisco without singing, “Mama’s little baby loves short’nin, short’nin…”). I have a couple of siblings whose “chips” are amazingly well-honed, and let me tell you, it makes for some rip-roaring conversations around my mother’s kitchen table. My “chip” is amateur-level compared to theirs, but that doesn’t stop me from assigning songs to random events. Somehow, I apparently believe life is a musical.

So, what song would I sing today?

This morning, I went in for my third SRS (Stereotactic Radiosurgery) to attack the two newest melanoma lesions on my brain. For those of you who are counting, this makes six lesions currently hanging onto my gray matter, four of which have already been zapped and are shrinking nicely. But the appearance of two new ones—especially after I underwent immunotherapy to kill the cancer cells floating around looking for a place to land—is discouraging news. We thought we were playing offense, but this means we’re still playing defense. And the other team is scoring.

So, back to my question. In Melanoma: the Musical, what should I sing today?

My first inclination is Toby Keith’s “I Wanna Talk About Me,” because I feel like all I ever talk/blog about anymore is this cancer, and, well, blah, blah, blah. I’ve never been one to blab on and on about myself—at least I don’t think I am—and I’m starting to feel like the girl you avoid at parties because all she can talk about is herself. 

So my next thought is “I Don’t Wanna Talk About It” by Rod Stewart, because I don’t want to be that girl. I also wish it wasn’t happening, and I haven’t been talking about it, at least not out loud. I’m still holding onto the last vestiges of my maybe-I-don’t-have-cancer-anymore bubble, so I smile when people ask how I’m doing and tell them I’m fine. I don’t want to say I’m having another radiation surgery today to kill the lesions that keep coming. Putting those words into the air will threaten the bubble already trembling to burst.

But then I remember I promised myself I’d be honest, and hiding behind a smile isn’t honest. So I think of “Beneath Your Beautiful” by Labrinth because you, my friends, are sincere in your concern and deserve the truth. The best kind of friendship allows the ugly to show, too.

So I’m writing the ugly because it’s easier for me than speaking it aloud. In my darker moments, when I’m angry at this cancer for popping up in my brain again, I want to sing “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” by Kylie Minogue. The slightly humorous bend makes me feel better for a minute. And in my optimistic moments, when I feel like a fighter and tell myself these are the LAST lesions we’ll have to zap, I sing “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.  That makes me feel better for longer, because Freddie Mercury. Freddie Mercury’s mustachioed passion always makes me feel better.

Of course, since this is radiation surgery and it happens in a highly protected, high tech room with radiation beams aimed at my head, “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons is a natural choice for today. I did feel a little glowy when I was done, although not for any real, science-supported reason. It’s just hard to lie there for 30-40 minutes without imagining my skin glowing red and my brain exploding in the nuclear cross hairs.

But now that it’s all done, I think the winning song for today is “Pretty Face” by Sóley. Not because I think my face is pretty—I’m far too old for pretty any more—but because of the disconnect the singer feels to her face. And the overall sense of being trapped.

 

I have to wear this mask when they do the SRS so they can screw my head to the platform and it won’t move during the treatment. It was custom made for me back in October, the plastic mesh molded to my face while hot and pushed into every nook and cranny around my nose, eyes, mouth, and cheeks so it has a very snug fit. I have used it for every radiation surgery since then. It very literally traps me down.

It also looks just like me, which is really weird. I’ve never seen my face in 3D before, yet whenever I pull out my mask for another surgery, there I am, eyes closed and unsmiling like a death mask. It’s kind of a reminder I have lost control of my body, and that body is creating death cells I never gave it permission to create. I recognize that face, yet I don’t. It’s the person everyone else sees, yet not the one I know. It’s me, and it’s not. But it’s hauntingly familiar. 

So yeah, the plastic face creeps me out.

But I also like "Pretty Face" for today because of the singer’s need to escape. She wants to run, to leave a bad situation and chase her dreams, but it feels hard and insurmountable. She lists all the things her heart wants, but there’s an underlying sense of doubt, and it's almost as if she's saying good-bye to everything she once wanted. I feel that, too. I want to want things, but I’m not sure I dare. There’s a piece of me that says, “Do everything, accomplish those goals, finish that book—you don’t know what your deadline is going to be!” But there’s another part of me that hurts to dream. Because I don’t know what my deadline is going to be.

It’s a messy song, with messy feelings. Maybe that’s why I like it. I had a third go at SRS today because I hope this will make my lesions go away, but I’m also discouraged because this is my third go at SRS and the lesions keep coming. After each treatment, the tech asks me if I want to keep the mask or have them throw it away—I guess it’s assumed I won’t have to do it again. Hope. But I opt to keep the mask. So far, there has always been a next time.

Of course, every good storyteller knows the situation has to keep getting worse and worse before it can get better. A happy ending means nothing if the story has been happy throughout. So maybe today's radiation treatment is simply the beginning of the third act of Melanoma: the Musical. Maybe this is the climax, the final sword fight, the scene in which all seems lost. Maybe in three months, when I have my next brain scan, it will come up empty and there will be no more lesions to battle. Maybe the heroine will finally conquer all.

Amazing! Laughter through tears! Tony Award worthy! If I were writing Melanoma: the Musical, that’s how I'd end it. “Pretty Face” would be the ballad that wrapped everyone in the helpless uncertainty surrounding cancer, reinforcing how the hoped-for conclusion cannot be guaranteed. The audience would cry a little, wondering what else can be done and coming up empty. Then I’d bring God into the mix for act three and remind everyone He is in charge. One little miracle, and poof! Happily ever after.

Yeah…that’s how I’d write it. And it would be awesome. My new favorite musical.

But unfortunately, I’m not the author.

I guess I just have to trust the One who is.