'Doctors cut out a lump from my elbow to be cautious. Then I got a 7am phone call.'

Have you ever sat in a doctor's office nodding unconfidently at the medical jargon, pretending to understand what your GP is saying?

Perhaps trying to work out how to spell that word they just said so you can remember it for your Google search later on?

Maybe you've forgotten to ask those important questions, or get distracted trying to find Wally on the Where's Wally? poster in the room because you're feeling so overwhelmed?

Welcome to me.

When I was 19-years-old, I received a complicated diagnosis. A lump on my left elbow that was initially cut out to avoid any worry was, all of a sudden, the biggest worry of my life.

Watch Tammy Hembrow share her skin cancer story on Mamamia's Well podcast. Post continues below.

The alarm bells started ringing when my doctor called me personally at 7 o'clock on a Saturday morning. I'd just moved to Sydney – maybe she was just checking in? Do doctors do that? The conversation was a blur, except for one part. It was the first time I heard my name and the word 'cancer' in the same sentence. A rare, complex type of skin cancer.

What came next was a series of medical appointments, operations, and a whole load of uncertainty. Not like the 'should I have Italian or Mexican for dinner?' uncertainty, more like the 'am I going to die?' uncertainty.

Image: Supplied.

I had a big operation, lymph nodes removed, nerves were accidentally cut, I lost feeling in parts of my arm, and had to re-train muscles because I couldn't bend, stretch or lift it.

I couldn't drive my car (manual) and don't get me started on how hard it was to have a shower. I was very quickly thrown into a world I had no idea how to navigate with a language I didn't understand.

What's 'dermal mitoses'? What does 'lymphovascular invasion' mean? 'Malignant potential' and 'irregular nuclei' don't sound like good things. And medical experts kept using the phrase 'spitzoid tumour'.

I did the two things every rational, level-headed person would do in this moment. Firstly, I freaked out. Then, I googled it. Oddly enough, that was no help. I typed it out in a word document instead – only to find that red squiggly line glaring back at me (go on, try it). I'd written a word a dictionary didn't even recognise. If the internet couldn't understand my diagnosis, how could I?

Thankfully, the cancer hadn't spread, but no one knew exactly what it was or why it developed – not my specialist GP's, nor my oncologist, nor the countless pathologists who examined my case. By the time I got my five-year clearance, I'd had more than a dozen surgical procedures to remove more unusual moles, marks or lumps.

All the words I'd read in pathology reports and heard from doctors swirled in my mind for days, that turned to months, that turned to years. Then… along came COVID. I bunkered down, masked up and spent my free time reading everything I could about skin health (while wading through countless online orders of skincare, of course).

Suddenly I found myself trying to weave the topic of skin health into every conversation. I'd talk to anyone who would listen about skin checks, skincare trends, ingredients and what SPF ratings mean. I lived and breathed all things skin. I'd unearthed a passion I never knew I had, and one that stemmed from somewhere I'd never expected. I started to see a gap in the market for skin concerns to be explained in layman's terms – for someone to bridge the gap between the medical jargon and the real-life implications.

I took my own confusion and overwhelm, found a course, and spent the next two years studying an applied health science degree in dermal therapy and clinical aesthetics – this from the person who failed high school science!

I started to understand the skin's layers and cell changes, the role sun exposure and UV play, cosmetic chemistry and how formulations are made, the chemical make-up of different types of sunscreens, diagnosis, prognosis and treatment of skin conditions – as well as performing IPL, laser, chemical peels and microneedling on clients.

Image: Supplied.

I started to re-read pathology reports with a newfound knowledge, and have skin-related conversations with a newfound expertise. I realised my skin cancer journey could be a superpower.

I now advocate for sun safety and for skin cancer early detection. I've spoken at national skin cancer conferences about the patient experience and at aesthetic industry events. I help teach crucial sun safety education in schools, while busting tanning myths and challenging dangerous tanning trends.

It's been a decade since that initial diagnosis and just this month I had my 22nd surgical procedure. The 22nd time I've had a doctor say something looks abnormal, the 22nd time I've been pumped with anaesthetic and sewn up with stitches, the 22nd time I've waited for test results, and believe it or not, I'm still trying to find Wally on the Where's Wally? poster in the surgery room.

Listen to the full episode of Well, your full body health-check. Post continues below.

Sooner or later, there will probably be a 23rd time. But now I sit and nod confidently, understanding exactly what the GP is saying. I know how to spell the complicated words without Google telling me what they mean and I know education is power — I can ask any question that comes to mind, with the hope of expanding my skin knowledge and more importantly, sharing it with others.

Except the question 'Where's Wally?' That, I'm still figuring out on my own.

Feature image: Supplied.