A couple months ago, upon inspecting a freckle at my hairline, I felt a deep, insistent nudge to get it checked. The freckle had been there for ages but recently appeared darker. Were I not a new mom, I might have ignored that nudge. I might have chalked it up to too much time in the sun and a need for new bangs. But the dependence of a tiny person made me worry and that worry may have saved my life.
The melanoma was thin, removed with a 45 minute procedure that was more stressful than painful. The only lasting effects are numbness in my scalp, which should fade over time, and a scar nobody will notice but me. The days waiting for pathology results were the worst, wondering if I'd need another procedure, wondering if the cancer had spread, wondering what stories my husband would tell our son if I died before his first birthday.
It was enough of a scare to make life feel more precious, even in the middle of this exhausting pandemic. Even isolated, even without the ready comfort of family and friends, even though Truman has only been held by his aunts and uncles with masks on, even though every day feels like a long Tuesday, even in this slog life feels holy.
There's a part of me that always struggled with the idea of motherhood because it seemed like a state of being that required full dismissal of self. As in, I'd no longer get to be Rachel because henceforth I'd have to be Mom. But the reality is more nuanced. I see him and I think, "I exist so that you exist." My ambition has been tempered by his smile. Work no longer feels like a goal in and of itself, but a means to an end and he's the end. I still enjoy the way I get to use my brain, but I prefer to think of him and not solar subscription agreements. But that doesn't feel like a loss of self, just a new alignment of priorities. And the scare of the last few weeks, the scabs largely gone, the scar pinking up and smoothing out, reminds me that every breath of that existence, his and mine, is a gift.
