Last September, I received a bleak diagnosis delivered with little empathy by a young doctor: ‘You have superficial spreading melanoma, Maria.’
In layman’s terms, I had a fast-growing skin cancer, and if it had spread – urgent scans would be needed to find out – it would likely kill me.
I stared at her in utter disbelief. I’d only had a small mole excised from my upper arm a week earlier.
As she rattled off the next steps – MRI and PET scans on my spine and brain – I didn’t cry. With no one’s hand to hold, I clutched on to the
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