I wrote this in a Brooklyn personal essay class a few years ago, right before moving back to Oregon. The first draft was an absolute mess, a representation of my mental state at the time. I’ve checked in on it over the past year, but I didn’t feel like enough breathing room had passed to finally give it a proper rewrite… until now.
Just a note, I will be submitting this piece to a couple publications in hopes of, well, getting it published. If it suddenly disappears, you might know why. Enjoy!
“Please, please, just take them away. Take them away and you can take my life.”
I’m burrowed away in the bathroom I share with my younger sister. I twist my naked 11-year-old torso in front of the mirror, my frantic fingers pulling at shoulder skin. Leaning closer over the beige tiled counter, I try to get a better view of my back.
Shit. There’s more of them than before outdoor camp. My mother’s “You’ve lost weight!” still echoes in my ears from when I ran upstairs to the bathroom. The weight loss is bittersweet. My body made more moles. More moles mean more chances of cancer.
My eyes fill with tears as I study the new brown dots on my upper back through blurred vision. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I do what makes sense when backed into a corner. I keep my voice low, just in case someone hears me.
I plead with God. I tell him if he takes away my moles, he can take my life at 25.
25 is a lifetime away. I will have graduated high school, college, seen the world, and gotten married. I will have done everything.
I stand in the vacuum of the bathroom for a few minutes, waiting for something - thunder quaking the house, or the mirror cracking down the middle. Nothing. I shake my head, and laugh with a snot-filled snort.
I wipe my face, and continue my inspection routine in silence, pulling my body closer to the mirror, trying to figure out what to do next.
I didn’t know then how long I would live with that promise.
I am not entirely sure I believed in God as a child, but I believed enough not to risk being wrong. I grew up Catholic - church on Sundays, prayers before meals, confession when school scheduled it. I believed because it is what I had been given, and not believing felt dangerous. God wasn’t someone I felt close to, but part of the surrounding architecture. If God was the architecture, the moles were the hairline cracks; small, everywhere, and impossible to miss once you notice them.
Like snowflakes, no two of my moles were the same. Many of them had been with me my whole life. Some were smooth and contrasted my pale skin. Others were raised, pink, with rough edges, like they were still deciding what to be. Most were no bigger than a ladybug; others the size of a nickel. A few grew little arm-like appendages that would catch when I pulled my shirt over my head.
The majority lived on my back and shoulders, scattered across me in no particular pattern, though I was convinced there had to be one. A couple in my armpits. A cluster on my upper left arm, which I often drew into a constellation. One on my forearm that I often rub when nervous. Another too close to my groin to feel safe. One next to my nose I forget exists until an itch makes it bleed. I never count them - there are too many - but I know where each one is, the way you know the streets of your hometown, even when you haven’t visited in years.
I never thought of them as part of my body. They felt more like barnacles, hitching a ride, capable of changing their minds overnight. I forgot most of them existed until my shirt had to come off in public.
“Come in if they get bigger than a pencil eraser” is drilled into my head by my dermatologist, Dr. Ross, when I am around 7 years old. I never ask why, only that it must not be good.
My mother’s diligence drives my twice yearly dermatologist visits. My mother has moles, my father has moles; we are just a family of mole people. I already hate the doctor. My early memories of visits are plastered with bad energy — chewing my fingernails until they bleed, inhalers, nightly headgear, an obnoxious yearly winter cough — now these moles.
My bare chest lies flat on the exam table, my eyes fixed on the sterile white wall. The exam light washes any color from the room. After the “pinch” of the sedative, I feel the dull cold of the scalpel in my shoulder, but not the pain. Dr. Ross removes one of my moles for the first time. My mother sits in an adjacent chair, reading.
I come into the room expecting a routine check-up, but one of the moles on my back has gone rogue. I never think it will involve cutting out a piece of my body.
While placing a bandage over the incision, Dr. Ross mentions she will send the mole to the lab to check for precancerous cells, and if anything comes back, she will let us know.
Wait. Cancer? The air leaves the room and I feel myself floating. The word blasts me into another state of shock. She says it so nonchalantly, like it is nothing more than a stomach ache. I wonder if she is trying to keep me from panicking - it doesn’t help. I don’t know much about cancer, but I know enough. Cancer kills people. Cancer can kill me.
After that, I watch my body the way you watch a dog eyeing your sandwich on the table. My mornings and evenings are spent as a contortionist, checking if any have grown bigger. I believe if I stare long enough, the brown spots will begin to morph before my eyes.
The road to the dermatologist office now stretches on for millions of miles. Until Dr. Ross walks into the exam room, I am living in a Schrödinger’s Mole - both cancerous and not. I sit on the cold exam table, removing pieces of clothing while she scans my body. I pray I don’t hear the words “This one looks a little suspicious to me”.
“Hey Cory, where’s Tapanga?” “Cankles” “Geek” “Bowlcut”
My love for computer games and robotic kits makes me a target at my K–8 Catholic school. It isn’t just name calling. It’s snide looks, snickering behind my back in the hallways. The feeling of being a social pariah because I am not good at sports or care much about them.
No one, absolutely no one, can know about the moles. I don’t understand what they are, so how would anyone else? They can’t be used against me if they never see the light of day. Any situation that requires me to take my shirt off, I avoid or keep it on. I’m ashamed of my weight, but more ashamed of the moles.
Worrying was my way of praying no one would ever see them.
Other than home and the dermatologist, gym class is the only place I take my shirt off regularly. Before and after class, I sprint into the boys bathroom and hug the dark back corner. I frantically undress and redress into my Catholic uniform. By the time the rest of my male classmates file in, I am already out the door. With my back against the wall the whole time, no one can ever see my moles.
My parents push my introverted self into joining the basketball team in 4th grade, but during practice, the team divides up into two groups - “shirts vs skins.”
Nope. There is no way I am going to take my shirt off in front of all the boys in my class. “Eww what are those?” “Mole boy.”, and whatever clever, but devastating nicknames that would deem me the top freak of the school spin through my head. I silently plead with my father on the sidelines, who is the assistant coach, to let me be “shirts” every time. I even have him ask the future coaches after he stops assisting. The fear of taking my shirt off is the blade of a guillotine waiting to drop.
My whole world is thin glass, one mention of my moles will shatter it to pieces.
After returning from outdoor camp between 5th and 6th grade, my mother remarks how much weight I have lost. When I look at my body in the bathroom mirror for the first time in weeks, my typical moles have grown in size. New moles have appeared on both my upper arms, and large ones the size of a pants button have made camp on my shoulders.
No, no, no, this can’t be happening. I’m scrambling in the mirror, my eyes navigating this new body, my fingers pulling tight at my shoulder, the skin becoming beet red. I’m trying to account for all the new moles, but the sight is making me dizzy.
I stop. Something clicks. My weight loss and the moles growing must be connected. All the days spent hiking through the Oregon wilderness was grueling, but fun. I thought losing weight was supposed to make me safer. I like the way I look, but losing weight isn’t worth it if it means increasing my risk of cancer.
I just want them gone. If the moles are gone, I can finally be free.
If I was learning anything in Catholic school, the man upstairs is powerful enough to answer prayers if you are desperate. My dermatologist has years of schooling, but she can’t perform a miracle. There is nothing else I can do, all options are out.
I let out a sigh, and realize there is only one person who can remove my moles in an instant, and I am desperate.
“Dear God…”
Despite my prayer to God, my life continues as though the event is nothing but a regular Tuesday. During 8th grade, I opt for public high school. The doubts about my faith come full circle, and I decide not to become confirmed, which means I can’t attend Catholic high school. After 8 years with the same 24 people, a change in scenery sounds nice.
With the change, I attend church less, and my belief moves to the background. I think I am cool for watching R-rated movies and listening to Linkin Park, but classmates are smoking cigarettes and stealing alcohol. My insecurity about the moles still exists, but it is easier to ignore. Fitting in, acne, and not coming off like a private school geek dominate my field of vision. Without twice weekly gym class or basketball, the chances of my shirt coming off drop. I stop checking my back as often.
I stop thinking about God, too. If I don’t stare at it directly, it can’t hurt or see me. I tell myself I don’t believe in him anymore, but the deal is already made.
Still, it feels like someone is watching.
Early on in high school, I manage to find a group of friends who welcome me for myself, and my self-confidence grows. We are all quirky weirdos, and their acceptance makes me feel a tiny bit better in my body.
The summer before senior year, we are swimming in the local lake, when one of the girls suggests we show them all our dicks. I try to keep it cool, but my childhood mole panic rises. Near my groin is a fairly large mole. By my teenage logic, I instantly go to “If anyone ever sees or knows about this mole, I will never get laid.”
With the mid-day sun beating down on us, the guys in my friend group and I all line up on the dock. My nervous sweat blends in with the beads of water from swimming. In unison, we drop our swim trunks and show the girls. I manage to hold my hand around my groin, obscuring the mole. After a few coy smiles and a “Hmm, nice boys,” we pull our trunks back up and jump into the water.
That same summer, bright white rings forming around some of the moles on my shoulder surprise me in the mirror one morning after showering. They circle the brown marks, removing any pigment from the surrounding skin.
They don’t hurt. They don’t itch. They just… exist.
I twist my torso side to side, trying to get a better glimpse, the way I always have. I can’t keep my eyes off them.
They don’t seem threatening, or dangerous. But I know what moles changing can mean; Dr. Ross made that clear years ago. But going back to her means getting an answer, and I am not sure I want one.
As long as I don’t say anything, they can still be nothing. Maybe they will just go away. Or at least stay quiet.
I do my best not to think about them.
A few weeks later, my friends and I are walking down the path to the lake. Despite the white rings, my shirt is off, something I am finally comfortable doing around my friends. For once, I am not thinking about my moles.
An unfamiliar voice behind me calls out, “Whoa, Cory! What are those things on your back?”
It’s Russell, a guy a grade below who starts hanging around us that summer.
My whole body tenses up. This is it. The exact moment I’ve been fearing. I’m a witness on trial, terrified of what everyone is thinking. I wait for the final blow – laughter from all my friends.
I manage a sheepish reply, “Uhh, yeah, they’re moles…”
He leans in to get a closer look, and I quickly flinch.
Russell replies, “Dude, they’re so cool! They look like little UFOs!”
He doesn’t step back and laugh at me. I look around, and no one is laughing.
UFOs? Huh. That’s kinda cool. My shoulders relax a little.
My friends pipe up one by one, saying how they have always wondered about my moles, but don’t want to ask. I nod, staring ahead at the lake, trying to hide the smile of relief creeping onto my face. For the first time, they don’t feel like something I need to hide.
They’re my little UFOs.
A few days later, I reluctantly show my mother the white-ringed moles. I try to sound casual when I tell her they’ve been there for a while, but she doesn’t react casually. An “emergency” dermatology appointment is made for the following week.
The moment I remove my shirt, Dr. Ross lets out an elated gasp, as though she’s discovering the holy grail.
Dr. Ross refers to the phenomenon as “halo nevi.” At the time, it’s incredibly rare. She explains my body is eating my moles, as though they are foreign. She has never seen the phenomenon in person, only hearing of it in studies
While Dr. Ross continues to explain halo nevi, I am daydreaming. I am going to be a moleless 20-something year old, frolicking on white sand beaches and playing basketball without a shirt on.
But the feeling is fleeting. The vision of me standing in the bathroom at 11 roars back for the first time in years.
My stomach drops.
Shit. God heard me. The halo nevi are God killing my moles. The cancer I have been waiting for never comes. But the promise does, and I can’t ignore the timing.
On the exam room table, a half-cocked smile forms across my face. I laugh to myself. 25 feels much closer now than when I was 11. I curse my younger self for not thinking of a higher number. The deal is done. My fate is sealed.
There is nothing to do now but wait.
With my permission (and my mother’s), Dr. Ross publishes a paper on my halo nevi. I come back a week later to find the exam room turned into a photography studio, where a dozen photos of my body are taken (minus my zit-filled face). A biopsy is done, and by the time the paper is published a few months later, the halo nevi have spread to most of my moles.
Somewhere in the world, enshrined in some little folder, is a study in black and white of my halo nevi.
“Wait, what do you mean you’re going to die this year?” my girlfriend says as we celebrate my 25th birthday.
We’re canoeing on Lake Champlain in Burlington, Vermont, the water calm and still, as though it, too, is waiting for my answer.
Seconds earlier, I laugh, remembering this is the year I am supposed to die. 25 no longer feels like a lifetime away; it is here. I explain the deal to her carefully, sensing the shift as the story hardens from off-hand anecdote into something real.
When I finish, the canoe goes quiet. My reassurance - “Don’t worry, I’m not going to die!” - does nothing. She bursts into tears. We paddle back to the rental dock in silence, my final year sitting between us.
Some days, I believe it. Other days, I don’t.
25 comes and goes. No thunder. No mirror cracking. No sudden illness. The relationship ends, but there is no moment where I can point and say, there, that is it.
I remember waking up the morning of my 26th birthday, half-expecting something to feel different. Like I have crossed some invisible line. Like I have slipped past whatever is waiting for me.
Nothing has changed. I just got older. Part of me still isn’t entirely sure why.
I can’t say I believe in God anymore. My relationship with him is like an estranged parent, sending a month’s late birthday card every few years. But not believing feels like drinking water from the bathroom sink - the water is probably fine, but something feels off about drinking it, like there’s a chance it could be bad.
For the last few Christmas Eves, I’ve attended midnight mass. There is a nostalgic peace which stirs from inside a church, the choir echoing off its stained glass. You can remove the child from Catholicism, but you can’t remove the Catholicism (and its guilt) from the child.
I don’t know if I believe. But part of me is still afraid not to.
A few months ago, a friend asked about the mark left by a mole removal on my nose. I laughed and told him the dermatologist recommended plastic surgery, saying my face would look better without it.
I always admired the scar. It’s a part of my face, not a blemish. The moles do the same thing. They blend into my life.
I look at myself in the mirror now, at 37, repeating the same technique from childhood. I twist my torso, pulling the skin on my back closer. The white circles contrast the fading glow of a summer tan, revealing spots where my childhood bullies once lay.
There aren’t as many as I used to believe. I always felt like my body was awash with them, sprinkled like a galaxy. Some still exist in their full form, untouched by my immune system. Maybe my body, like myself, eventually accepts them for what they are - nothing but irregularities, not omens.
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Thank you for reading. Happy Year Of The Horse.