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I’ll never forget January 12, 2001. That was the day that I found out my sister had malignant melanoma. I was preparing dinner when Melissa called me. "Mare, I have melanoma?" That’s just how she said it — like she was asking me to explain how this could happen.

As a pediatrician and a medical student before that, I had never had a patient with melanoma, but I knew it was the most dangerous form of skin cancer. I immediately turned to my medical textbooks to learn everything I could about my sister’s disease. The more I read, the harder it became to believe that my little sister, my best friend, was sick.

Born only 20 months apart, we were the closest two sisters could be. Friends and family even referred to us as "Mare-Mis" as if we were just one. We slept side by side in a full-sized bed until I was nine years old. I still remember how we would keep each other up talking, or try to get ourselves to sleep by rubbing each other’s back. Our wardrobes were identical; the only difference in our clothing was the color. Every Christmas, we’d race against each other to open presents, because we knew that if one got a red sweater, the other could expect to receive it in purple as well.

When Melissa was diagnosed with melanoma, I jumped a train to New York to be with her. The news my family received wasn’t good – the mole on Melissa’s right shoulder had become cancerous, and the cancer had spread to many of the lymph nodes under her arm. We learned of a physician in Philadelphia who was experimenting with a new melanoma treatment — vaccinating patients against their own cancer cells. They told us that so far, their patients were living much longer after their diagnosis with these treatments. For seven weeks, Melissa took a train from New York to Philadelphia each week to receive the vaccine.

It was almost a year after her initial diagnosis, just around Thanksgiving, when we found out that Melissa’s melanoma had spread. She called me one night because she was having trouble talking — her tongue was numb. I told her to get to an emergency room immediately, feeling completely helpless from my home in Washington, DC. My brother and parents were with her when the doctors told Melissa that she had a seizure due to a tumor in her brain. The melanoma was back. Again, I hopped a train to get home to be with her.

From that point on, Melissa’s fight with melanoma was one big blur of surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy. I traveled home to be with her as often as I could. I’d try to sleep in the recliner chair next to her hospital bed, but most often ended up sleeping in her bed with her, the way we did when we were kids. I was always so amazed by her resilience. She’d go into the hospital for brain surgery, and be on the phone two days later talking to her business clients from her hospital bed. I don’t think very many of her friends and coworkers even knew how serious her condition was because she was so incredible at bouncing back.

In the fall of 2003 we learned that Melissa’s cancer had not only spread to her brain, but to more lymph nodes, her liver and her spine. Her doctors started her on more chemotherapy, but we knew it was only a matter of time. Three days before Christmas, she was admitted to the hospital because she was very weak. On Christmas Eve, she slipped into a coma and died two days later. My family was with her when she passed, each holding her hands and hugging her. It was very peaceful and full of love. I feel blessed to have been with her.

I know now that as a pediatrician, I have to make a difference. Parents need to know how to protect their kids against the sun and its harms. Since Melissa has died, I’ve decided to change my career path to try to be a louder voice for melanoma. I figure that by telling people her story and making them understand how awful a disease melanoma is, maybe more deaths can be prevented. This is the best way I can think of to honor her memory.

-Maribeth Bambino Chitkara, MD

Like to learn how you can help? Visit www.melissafund.org.