In June 2017, my sister received her Master’s of Nursing degree. We made a weekend of it — the ceremony was out of town, so the family traveled together to celebrate. The spot at the base of my neck isn’t visible when you’re dressed. It sits low enough that a collar covers it completely. But at some point during the weekend, I had my camera bag over my shoulder, and the strap pulled the back of my shirt down just enough. My sister noticed it. That’s who she is — the family’s self-appointed guardian, our private doctor. Once she sees something, she doesn’t let it go.
I went to a dermatologist, got a biopsy. It came back benign. Life continued.
Fast forward to 2025. The spot had changed. What was once subtle had become a visible growth. I wasn’t in pain. But I paid attention, and I went back.
The dermatologist initially thought it was a keloid or a cyst. She gave me a steroid shot and said it should start getting smaller over time. I waited about four weeks. It didn’t appear to change at all, so I scheduled another appointment myself. I mentioned the 2017 biopsy — she asked if I still had the results. I didn’t. Eight years is a long time, and I couldn’t even remember the doctor’s name. I told her I had no problem getting another biopsy and would do whatever she recommended. She did one. The cyst was removed and sent out for testing — to multiple labs, it turned out, before anyone could say definitively what it was. Four weeks passed before I got the diagnosis.
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On February 13, 2026, I got the call. The diagnosis was DFSP — dermatofibrosarcoma protuberans. A rare, slow-growing soft tissue tumor. Technically, a form of cancer.
I was calm during the waiting. That part was fine. But when I got the diagnosis, that word — cancer — landed differently than I expected. Not because of what DFSP actually is, but because of what that word carries. My mom is a breast cancer survivor. My uncle died from pancreatic cancer. Several of my aunts have survived breast cancer. I didn’t hear that word in a vacuum. I heard it with all of that behind it.
I did my research. My sister — the same one who noticed the spot at her graduation eight years earlier, now a nurse practitioner — did her research too. DFSP is not what most people picture when they hear the word cancer. It doesn’t spread to lymph nodes or organs the way other cancers do. The prognosis with proper treatment is very good. Understanding what it actually was helped settle things.
But the part that concerned me most wasn’t the diagnosis itself. It was having to tell the people I loved — and watching the word land for them the way it had landed for me.
The diagnosis was mine to carry. Telling the people I loved was a different kind of weight entirely.
I told my wife over dinner on our weekly date night. Her first reaction was worry — she said she could cry. But she watched me, and I wasn’t falling apart. Once she realized I wasn’t overly concerned, she seemed to settle. I think that’s how it works sometimes. The people who love you are watching to see how scared you are before they decide how scared to be.
That Sunday — February 16 — I told my mom. We were in the car together when I brought it up. I shared the diagnosis, the research, and that surgery was being scheduled. She didn’t say much at first. On March 29, I reminded her the surgery was coming up on April 2. I told her I’d be fine and that she didn’t have to come. She was already arranging her ride before I finished the sentence.
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Surgery was April 2nd. I scheduled it for 7:30 in the morning — I wanted it done early. I wanted to get it out of the way and get on with things.
The procedure was Mohs surgery — a technique where the surgeon removes tissue in stages and examines each layer under a microscope before proceeding. My wife and my mother waited in a private waiting area. Between cycles, I’d go sit with them and we’d talk. It was calm. It felt manageable.
Before the third cycle, I asked the surgeon how many cycles he’d ever had to do. He said twelve or thirteen, but didn’t think mine would take that many. I told him: “It takes what it takes.”
One of the nurses heard that and commented that she liked my attitude. I told her: “It’s out of my control now.”
That’s where I live on things like this. You do what you can — you go to the appointment, you get the second opinion, you show up at 7:30 in the morning, you trust the surgeon. The rest belongs to God. That’s not resignation. That’s how I’m built.
It took three cycles.
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The wound is about six inches, at the base of my neck. Staples and stitches. It feels like a constant crook in your neck — that’s the best way I can describe it. The staples come out next week. The stitches the week after.
I’m sore. I’m fine.
I’m technically a cancer survivor now. I want to be clear about what I mean when I say that — and equally clear about what I don’t mean. I know what cancer looks like up close. I’ve watched people I love face it in ways that were brutal and consuming and life-altering. What I went through is not the same thing, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But it’s also real. The diagnosis was real. The surgery was real. The dinner where I told my wife was real.
If you’ve ever received a diagnosis that sits in an uncertain space — not catastrophic, but not nothing — maybe some of this resonates. The emotions don’t always match the prognosis. That’s okay. You can know the odds are good and still feel the weight of it. Both things can be true.
My sister spotted something at her graduation weekend eight years ago — accidentally, because of a camera bag strap. I went back when it changed. The dermatologist did her job thoroughly. My wife and my mother sat in a waiting room and waited for me. I changed what I could. I left the rest where it belongs.
That’s the whole story.
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