I only have a few hazy memories of visiting the beach in childhood. I remember a yellow sand bucket and crying after my sister kicked down my sandcastle. I remember a thunderstorm rolling in, and fleeing to the car. We laughed as we got inside, our clothes drenched. It was our last family visit to the beach.

Melanoma.

I was ten when I first heard the word. It sounded strange and pretty on my tongue, like a girl’s name in a foreign language. I didn’t understand it, but I knew it meant Mommy was sick. She had a brown-and-black mole on her arm. It was ragged around the edges — not quite a circle, but a squiggly, amorphous blob. At night, my parents’ nervous whispers drifted up to my bedroom like fireplace smoke.

I heard words like, “cancer,” “surgery,” “survival rate.”

I didn’t fully understand, but I was old enough to know something was wrong.

My mom went to the doctor and returned with her arm in a cast. When it came off, there was a chunk missing from her arm. It looked like someone had taken a bite out of her arm, like she was a juicy apple and they couldn’t resist. All along its curve were small, neat black stiches, ants marching across a crisp, white fruit.

We were lucky. The cancer was caught early and could be removed without chemotherapy. Life returned to normal. My mom walked us to school and asked us about our days. She cooked dinner and went to school plays.

But whenever we went outside, my mother disappeared under layers of sun-protective clothes. She wore oversized sunglasses and a summer jacket over her regular clothes. She had a wide-brimmed hat with cloth panels that made her look like a beekeeper. When the sun was shining, she’d hold the panels over her face. She walked faster to be in the shade again, as though the sun was an invisible enemy stalking her.

We never went to the beach again. We took walks, visited botanical gardens, and hiked wooded trails. In our house, we called clouds “thank-goodness clouds,” and everyone was in a better mood when they floated through the sky like white sails in the ocean. But we never visited the beach. The beach was the epitome of sun — everything my mother wanted to avoid.

MY husband, Jacob, had better memories of the beach. He vacationed with his parents in the Caribbean and learned to scuba dive. He loved exploring the ocean floor and swimming alongside sea turtles, seahorses, and manta rays.

“We should take our kids to the beach this summer,” Jacob said, a few years into our marriage. The kids were two and four.

Outwardly, I smiled and agreed it was a good idea. Inside, I was nervous. The beach was intimidating. All that sun, beating down relentlessly. The endless ocean. I took a deep breath. I’d apply sunblock, get wide-brimmed hats for everyone, and keep the kids under a beach umbrella. I could endure this.

“Look at this one, Mommy!” Ella holds up an iridescent turquoise shard of seashell.

“It’s beautiful, honey.”

My son holds up a rock. “Very nice, Ari.”

All the pain that followed had colored my memories of the beach. It was so much nicer than I remembered.

I feel the sun beating down on us, warm and gentle. The fear I’ve held on to for so long starts to melt away like ice cream left out in the summer sun.

It’s funny how something that destroys can also give life. What gives pain can also give us so much joy.

My husband emerges from the ocean, holding his snorkel and dripping water onto the sand. “Ready to go?” he asks.

“Not just yet,” I say with a smile, “just a few more minutes in the sun.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 906)