In 2007, I made a life-changing decision. It took just a moment to answer a phone call, about 15 seconds to respond with a simple, “Oh. Okay, thank you,” and one blue Bic pen to note the date and time. To this day, I am astounded by how effortlessly I made that choice. It took me less time than heating a meal in the microwave to stop a habit I had engaged in for nearly 20 years, with a fervent commitment for the last 15. While others poured over car options and hairstyle ideas for weeks, I simply switched off the harmful habit that had consumed my life, just as I would turn off the water running in my kitchen sink.
I grew up in an era influenced by Teen magazines and Tiger Beat. I wore electric blue mascara and rocked my tight-rolled jeans above my pale white Keds. Bright shirts, voluminous hair, and bronzed skin were the trends but, unfortunately, my fair complexion with green eyes and reddish-blonde hair left me far from what was considered fashionable. My grandfather used to say my sister and I were strawberry blondes, missing the mark of being a true redhead or blonde. But deep down, I longed for that sun-kissed glow.
Starting at around 12, every spring and summer, I would set up my lawn chair, slather on baby oil, and tune into my battery-operated radio, searching for the sunniest spot to lie down. I would roast in that sticky plastic chair, turning every half hour like a rotisserie chicken. As I grew older, my patience increased, and soon I was lying for longer periods without checking for color. Each time, I would burn, blister, and peel, but my friends reassured me that the red would eventually turn to tan. For me, that transformation rarely occurred; the redness was just painful and faded away. Yet, I didn’t let that discourage me. Instead, I grew even more determined to achieve the tan I so desperately wanted.
I didn’t realize back then that I was conditioning my skin for future damage. The more I exposed it to the sun, the tougher it became—though I couldn’t see the consequences at the time. I graduated from baby oil to Hawaiian Tropic tanning lotion, but nothing ever seemed to give me the color I desired. Yet, being pale was not acceptable in the ‘80s and ‘90s.
After graduating in 1992, I started working part-time while attending college, and I became a regular at the tanning salons. Many of my friends were avid tanners, and even though I had reservations about the dangers of tanning beds—after all, we had heard the horror stories about them cooking your insides—I eventually succumbed to the allure of that coveted tan. At 18, I began to spend one or two sessions a week lying in a pool of sweat under powerful tanning bulbs.
Over the years, my visits escalated to three or four times a week during the spring and summer. My skin finally complied and started to tan, resulting in a ruddy complexion that I had long sought after. As I grew comfortable with my appearance, I extended my tanning sessions, starting earlier in the year and continuing later into the fall. By 2007, I was tanning from February to October, lying under those lights for 20 minutes at a time, loving every second.
Many people don’t realize that tanning can become addictive. When I say I loved it, I mean it in the way people adore their favorite treats—not just fondly. The scent of tanning accelerators was my favorite fragrance, even more so than fresh donuts. There was something about the mix of coconut oil and other ingredients sizzling on my skin that I found strangely satisfying. Morbid as it may sound, I even missed that smell after I quit.
As the years went on, my skin bore the marks of my obsession. I developed permanent tan lines, a testament to my dedication to tanning. Even after having my two children in 2001 and 2002, I remained a devoted tanner. My kids only knew me as the “red” mom, with my face and shoulders perpetually sunburned and dotted with what I called freckles but my grandmother referred to as age spots. I thought I had sealed my fate, and quitting was never an option.
Then, a friend changed everything. One sunny afternoon in 2007, while we were chatting in my driveway, she pointed to a dark, horseshoe-shaped mole on my upper left arm and asked, “Hey, how long has that been there?” I hadn’t thought much about it and shrugged it off. However, she insisted I see my doctor, and her concern turned out to be life-saving.
Within a week, I was devastated to learn from my doctor that the mole was melanoma. Shortly after, I underwent surgery to remove it, leaving me with both an external and internal scar. It was a wake-up call. I stopped tanning immediately, gave away my remaining prepaid tanning sessions, and began using sunscreen with at least 30 SPF. I now protect my children’s skin vigilantly.
Since that day, I’ve faced numerous skin checks and have dealt with basal cell carcinoma four times, requiring surgeries each time. In 2014, I began using Efudex, a topical chemotherapy treatment, on my chest to combat precancerous spots developed from years of tanning. This is a treatment I wouldn’t have needed had I not been so reckless with my skin.
While my story may not be as harrowing as others I’ve read, I realize how fortunate I am. I belong to online forums where I read about others enduring grueling treatments, and I count my blessings every day. Every skin check may reveal more damage, but by quitting tanning, I’ve significantly reduced my chances of developing further melanomas.
I acknowledge my past foolishness, vanity, and ignorance. Now, as a mother of two teenagers who only know summers filled with sunscreen, I embrace my pale skin. I am alive.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, the author shares her journey from a tanning bed obsession to a life-saving realization after being diagnosed with melanoma. Through the influence of a concerned friend, she made a significant life change, prioritizing skin health and educating her children about sun safety. Her experience serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of tanning and the importance of being vigilant about skin health.