Please bear with me; this is a true story, so, like all true stories (unlike fables, which are generally straightforward and to the point) it takes a meandering path, allowing the disparate but necessary elements to find their way into the timeline and create the tale as it unfolds.
December 2022
There wasn’t supposed to be a Part III to this tale. Telling the story of the Tick and the Butterfly is something I had intended to do (at some point) for quite some time. It was to have been simply a two-part story of a series of synchronicities, the intuition needed to pay attention and act on them, and the ultimately positive outcome from having done so despite the difficulties and hardships along the way. In the end, the Butterfly would continue, on and on, for many years, happy to stand as a symbol of all that had led to her creation.
But stories can sometimes take wildly unexpected turns, necessitating a circling back in time and a leap forward into the unknown.
September 2022
The Butterfly was five years old—impossibly old for a living insect, but rather young for one made of ink in skin. She was pleased and proud to stand for the happy ending to a story of challenging events. True, her color had faded over time, and the surgical scar had almost immediately spit out her beautiful blue ink after it was laid down, but she was still lovely.
Little did she know at the time that her very existence would soon
be threatened. For just a few inches away from where she sat, a mysterious lump had appeared, seemingly overnight.
October 2022
This lump was concerning; the doctor who examined it wanted an inside view, so a CT scan was done, and I was directed to an ENT physician to investigate further. The ENT wanted a better image, so a CT scan with contrast was ordered, and I was sent on to a head and neck surgeon for consultation. The CT images had both showed something that didn’t belong there, so an internal tissue biopsy guided by CT and ultrasound was ordered.
Early November 2022
The point of entry for the needle biopsy procedure was just at the edge of the Butterfly’s wing, so no harm done there. But if a surgery were to be done—? This prospect was threatening, as the lump was deep in the muscle of the left upper trapezius, very close to where the Butterfly was perched. Depending on what this lump was and what would be required to remove it, she might end up with a small bite from the top of a wing, or she might end up being destroyed. All in all, a stunning turn of events to contemplate.
Having suspected that the still-unidentified and ever-growing lump would turn out to require more complex treatment than a “simple” surgery, the head and neck surgeon (who suspected it was a sarcoma) had already referred me to an oncological surgeon. The day before the appointment with that newest in a line of doctors, the head and neck surgeon informed me of the biopsy results. To our shared dismay, the result showed that not only was the lump a tumor but more specifically, that it was malignant melanoma.
The Butterfly and I were in shock. Had I not been specific enough when I told the Universe repeatedly that the Butterfly marked the last melanoma I would have?! Was it really possible that the twice-yearly skin exams I’d had by my dermatologist ever since 2002 (the year of the first of the three little melanomas) had somehow missed this?! It couldn’t be true. Maybe my biopsy sample had been mixed up at the lab with someone else’s. This couldn’t be right. This was just so unfair!
As it happens, this is probably not a new case of melanoma at all; it most likely is actually a continuation of the last one—a recurrence from cells that escaped the immediate vicinity of the last one. This activity would not have been visible on the skin’s surface, and so not detectable in any number of skin exams. But a recurrence after nearly ten years?? How can that possibly be?!, I asked. Cancer does funny things, the doctor said.
Funny. Nobody’s laughing.
December 2022
Still, there are reasons for gratitude: decent (if imperfect) healthcare insurance; the discovery of immunotherapy for treatment of melanoma; and supportive, helpful, loving family and friends.
I’m not trying to fool myself: this won’t be easy. As the Butterfly and I make our way through medical treatments, we’ll continue to ask for help—seen and unseen—and stay open to whatever Soul lessons this experience offers.
Stay tuned.