Cancer History: A Wake-Up Call
It was a rainy day in March of 2013 when I received a phone call that would change my life forever. I was just 25. I remember pulling my car over to the side of the road in the middle of rush hour traffic, my hands shaking and my chest tight. Everything around me continued moving—the cars, the people, the world—but my life had come to a screeching halt. Tears streamed down my face as I sat there screaming in disbelief. Why me? What felt like a possible death sentence slowly transformed into the first chapter of a new lease on life.
Cancer had always haunted my family. Skin cancer, in particular, seemed to follow our bloodline—cousins, aunts, grandparents, and even my father had faced their own battles. Knowing this, I should have been more vigilant. Yet, I had always loved the sun. My summers were spent at the beach, my teenage winters in tanning salons. I was insecure about my skin and my appearance—I was literally trying to change the skin I was in. Then, in October 2012, while in Mexico for my best friend’s wedding, she noticed a freckle on my leg that had changed. Alarm bells rang immediately. I called my dermatologist to schedule an appointment, knowing I needed to be cautious.
Dr. Kalis, a highly recommended dermatologist, didn’t have an opening until February 2013. I didn’t see the freckle as an emergency, so I booked the first available date. When I arrived, I nervously explained my concerns: the freckle was unfamiliar, it bothered me, and I wanted it removed. As he examined my skin, I felt my stomach tighten.
“The freckle looks normal, Christine. There is no discoloration, it is not raised, and the shape is even,” Dr. Kalis said.
“Can you still remove it? I just don’t like it,” I replied.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’ll do a punch biopsy and send it in for testing, just to be safe.”
Fast forward to 4:30 p.m. on March 3, 2013. I was at work, glancing at the clock, waiting impatiently for 5 p.m. My phone rang from the drawer of my desk—it was Dr. Kalis. I stepped into a private office, heart racing, and he delivered the news: the biopsy results were abnormal. He was referring me to a specialist. I scribbled down the information, feeling a mix of fear and disbelief.
By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, I was heading to my car. The call was transferred to a soft-spoken woman named Nurse Margo Klein at The Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center of Northwestern University. She asked me to hold. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounding. “Christine, your biopsy came back positive for melanoma. Can you come in tomorrow at 8 a.m.?” I barely whispered, “Yes.”
The news felt unreal. I cried, I cursed, I begged for help, I punched the steering wheel. Then I thought of my parents and drove to their house to share the news. My family, familiar with cancer scares, immediately became a pillar of support. My dad, a stage 4 esophageal cancer survivor, sat me down. “Christine, you have to stay positive. Listen to your doctors and take it one day at a time,” he said. From that moment, my dad became my hero. His strength became mine, reminding me that if he could survive, so could I.
Within 16 hours, I found myself on a cold, metal exam table, flanked by my dad and sister, awaiting my first appointment with Dr. Jeffery Wayne. My expectations of a compassionate, gentle oncologist were quickly corrected—he was direct, clinical, and distant. But his expertise was unmatched. He reviewed my chart and delivered my official diagnosis: the birthmark I had requested to be removed had become Stage 1 Spitzoid Melanoma.
Spitzoid Melanoma is notoriously difficult to detect because it mimics benign lesions. I have been told repeatedly that trusting my instincts likely saved my life. If the melanoma had gone untreated, the outcome could have been far more serious. Over the next few weeks, Dr. Wayne ran tests and additional biopsies revealed another Spitzoid Nevus on my left breast.
Surgery came quickly—on April Fool’s Day, 2013. The irony was not lost on me; it truly felt like life was playing a cruel joke. The melanoma on my leg was removed with a 7cm margin down to the first layer of muscle, and the lesion on my breast was excised in a 2cm circumference. The recovery blurred in a haze of medication, but two weeks later, my doctors confirmed that all the cancer had been removed and it had not spread. I spent another two weeks on bed rest, regaining strength in my leg, and returned to work a month later. Today, I have been in complete remission for nearly eight years.
That one phone call changed everything. Before cancer, I lived in fear, struggling with insecurity, occasional depression, and the mistaken belief that my purpose was tied to material success. The diagnosis forced me to confront my mortality and prioritize my health, mindset, and happiness. I chose to embrace positivity, nurture my body, and honor my intuition.
What could have been a death sentence became a profound opportunity to truly live. I discovered my purpose: helping others, cherishing each day, and seeing life as a gift rather than a guarantee. I became health-conscious, spiritually attuned, and committed to living in the present.
In the chaos of life, I learned the power of stillness, gratitude, and resilience. I am happier now than I ever thought possible. I believe everything happens for a reason, and my battle with melanoma was a test I was strong enough to survive. This journey gave me a second chance—a chance to truly live, fully and intentionally.
