With summertime sun on the way, now is a good time to check for skin cancer: Ervolino

It was just one of those things.

I’m not even sure what to call it, or when it first popped up. But there it was — above my chest, below my neck and kind of pink.

Occasionally, people would notice it and ask what it was.

“What is that thing?”

Often, people would tell me to keep an eye on it.

“It’s probably nothing,” they’d say, “but if it ever changes …”

Changes?

Yes. Suspicious skin “thingies” — spots, moles, marks or lesions — sometimes change their shape. Or color. Or texture.

And then?

You see a doctor, of course: your physician, dermatologist or cancer specialist.

My spot was amorphous and pale pink. Every time I went to the doctor for a checkup, I’d show it to him.

I was never terribly concerned about it. Neither was he.

But then, two years ago, my brother found out that he had a relatively minor form of skin cancer. An old friend received a far more serious diagnosis: melanoma.

Like many — if not most — people, when I find out someone has a serious disease, I can’t help but wonder when I’m going to get it, too.

Plus, I’m at THAT age. As I’ve mentioned, on a few occasions, I used to be young. (Very young, if you go back far enough.) But I’m going to be 70 next year, and while that’s not as old as it used to be, it isn’t young, either.

In the last few years, lots of my friends have passed from all sorts of things. And that tends to make you jumpy.

As I’m sure you know, all sorts of things come into play here. Diet and other lifestyle choices. Genetic abnormalities. And outside factors, like bad air, bad water and our old friend the sun.

I grew up playing in the sun, swimming in the sun and lying in the sun.

This is because when it comes to skin, I’m a rather typical Italian. I’ve never been fair-skinned. I’m more of an olive.

The green variety.

With a tan, I looked like an Italian movie star. Without one, I looked like a troll with scurvy.

Green.

As a result, I spent lots of time sunning myself, back in the day. I couldn’t wait, in fact, for the warm weather, so I could bake and brown.

In the '80s, however, fate intervened. I went to Florida in March to visit a friend and got sun poisoning. A year later, I went to Mexico in February and got, yes, more sun poisoning.

Our good friend the sun — my favorite heavenly body, star and hot ball of plasma — had ceased being my friend.

I greatly curtailed my visits to the beach, and that was right around the time that my spot popped up.

“What is that thing?”

For years, I did my best to ignore it. It hadn’t changed color or shape or texture. Until a few weeks ago, that is, when it seemed to get kind of dark and felt kind of weird.

I had already made an appointment for a biopsy when I realized there were two hairs growing in there. I plucked them out and, sure enough, my old pink spot became an old pink spot again.

This didn’t stop the biopsy, though. In fact, the dermatologist decided to remove my spot altogether.

She gave me a shot, said I wouldn’t feel anything and then backed away when I started screaming. She said the same thing after a second shot, but I screamed again, anyway.

“You shouldn’t be feeling this,” she insisted.

I felt it, anyway.

Sue me.

During this torture, she asked about my sun habits.

“Just a few minutes a day,” I said. “I need a little color. It makes me look good. And younger. Not that I’m old.”

Wink, wink.

Two weeks went by and no one called me, so I called the office. I told the lad who answered that I needed test results. He located my file and said precisely what I didn’t want to hear.

“She’ll have to call you.”

Oh, no.

When you’re OK, they tell you that. Right? And when you’re not?

I nervously contemplated my future. Hospitalization? Chemo? Should I have a living will?

Is this the end? Or just the beginning of the end?

“Not yet,” I wailed. “I’m still young! And I’d look even younger if I had some sun!”

After 90 minutes with no news, I called back, screaming. “This is sadistic! I need my results! Every minute counts!”

After another two hours, Biopsy Lady finally rang.

“Benign,” she said.

I stared into my phone. “It’s benign? I’m gonna live? Thank you! I love you! Marry me! Marry me!”

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “In the meantime, don’t freak out if you see more. They’re a normal part of old age.”

Excuse me?

Old age?

Who says that to people?

The wedding’s off.

This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Check for skin cancer as summer starts: Ervolino