A Sharpie Promise

Amy always had a fascination with Sharpies and Post It Notes. During her career, her desk was littered with the square notes of important To Do’s or meeting agenda items. She preferred the florescent colors of Yellow, Green, Pink and Orange, but the occasional blue and purple would slip into her repertoire. She always wrote with a thick Sharpie. I always thought it attune to shouting with her bold handwritten notes jumping off the paper.

During our marriage, Amy threatened to circle a mole on my scalp with the aforementioned black sharpie. Her rationale was that she could then track it to see if it ever grew out of its boundary into something more nefarious. We would always chuckle about her empty Sharpie threat, but when she was diagnosed with cancer, she made me promise to get it checked by a dermatologist annually. It was never said, but I know she was concerned that without her and her Sharpie keeping an eye on me, I would ignore it and let it become an unnecessary issue.

It was one of the few items she asked of me as her health began to worsen. So, late last year, after putting off my annual dermatologist appointment for most of the year, I finally called and attempted to schedule my annual visit. Unfortunately, they were booked well into the next year. As I was grinding my teeth at the inconvenience, I remembered my Sharpie promise to Amy. I asked the scheduler if there was any option available to fit it into the current year. After a long pause, she offered me an appointment on Christmas Eve.

Although less than ideal, Christmas 2024 in the Youngquist household was held on Sunday, December 22^nd due to the various work schedules of the kids. I jumped at the appointment to ensure I lived up to my promise to Amy. At the appointment, I made sure to remind the dermatologist to look at the mole, well hidden under my hairline.

Upon inspection, he expressed concern that it was abnormal and recommended taking a biopsy. He quickly performed the procedure, bandaged my head and sent me packing with wishes for a nice holiday. The next week, I reviewed my results in MyChart and read that it was cancerous. I was not overly concerned as my father had multiple areas of melanoma during his lifetime. The typical remedy involved minor procedures to cut the cancer out. He never received chemotherapy or immunotherapy for these, and it was generally not very disruptive to his routine.

My dermatologist recommended something similar. He referred me to a dermatological surgeon who specialized in areas of the scalp. I don’t know what I expected, but what I heard from the doctor was that they were going to cut out a small area from my scalp and then perform a biopsy of the margins overnight. If the report did not come back clean, I would have to come back the next day for them to remove a larger area. After the margins tested free of the melanoma, a plastic surgeon would repair my scalp while under anesthesia.

I communicated the plan with the kids and arranged for Mary and Jerry to assist me with transportation. Phase 1 went as well as could be expected with the margins coming back clean on the first round. In retrospect, I think I underestimated the seriousness of the procedure to the kids and to myself.

It was only after I saw Claire’s expression when she helped me secure my bandage after the initial surgery, that I realized the scope of what they had removed from my scalp.

On Thursday, I arrived at the Surgery Center for the scalp repair with optimism that this would all soon be behind me and I would be able to resume my normal routine. I suggested to Jerry that he need not wait with me if he had errands to complete. I assured him I should be wrapped up in a couple of hours.

During Amy’s illness, I waited with Amy on numerous occasions for her radiation and chemotherapy treatments, for scans, and for countless other doctor appointments. As I lay on the gurney alone in the pre-op room with my IV drip, I suddenly realized I will never know the comfort and reassurance of my spouse’s touch in such situations.

Tears filled my eyes at the thought, but it quickly passed. Instead, my last thought before the sedation took full effect was not of self-pity, but a sense of relief that I had been present for Amy.

I was relieved that I never let work or fear encumber me from simply being present in our love for each other during those frightening moments. That I could simply be still and hold her hand as she slept, watch a baseball game silently with her as she dozed, rub her arm to comfort her at night, or wait with her for some of those awful procedures.

I am on the road to recovery and should be able to resume my active lifestyle soon. It is hard to explain my feelings, but I know Amy will be present with me during future tests and procedures. Neither of us would ever let the other go through such trials alone. I need only close my eyes to feel her hand in mine. To feel her give me a quick squeeze of reassurance. A Sharpie promise made and kept.