I found myself in the right place, sitting in the waiting room for my first consultation with a specialist—a Mohs surgeon who would eventually carry out a precise microsurgical procedure to excise the basal cell carcinoma my dermatologist detected on my forehead.
Skin cancer? Really? I’m far too young for that. Isn’t skin cancer something that happens to older folks or those who foolishly bask in tanning beds?
Yet, I knew that wasn’t entirely accurate. My sister had faced malignant melanoma at just 28—definitely not old and certainly not a tanning bed enthusiast. It seems we inherited some unfortunate skin genetics. But I recognized my situation wasn’t the worst. Basal cell carcinoma is the “milder” form of skin cancer; it’s slow-growing and relatively easy to treat. The success rate for Mohs surgery is impressive, sitting between 97 to 99.9 percent. That’s a far cry from melanoma, which is the aggressive, terrifying type that sends shivers down anyone’s spine.
In fact, I might be the luckiest person in this waiting room. Not only am I the youngest, but there are others here with far more daunting news than basal cell carcinoma.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist called, breaking into my thoughts.
Is she talking to me?
“Ma’am,” she repeated, locking eyes with me as she handed my insurance card back. “It’ll just be a few more minutes.”
“Ma’am”? Really? I thought as I made my way across the room to retrieve my card. She looked to be at least five years older than me.
As I returned to my seat, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Why is there a mirror in a dermatology waiting room? I look like a “ma’am.” I resemble a 35-year-old mother of three—because that’s exactly what I am.
When did that happen?
It feels as if I just graduated college, yet here I am, reflecting on a lifetime of motherhood. I can’t believe I have a child in elementary school, and I already find myself forgetting the days of sleepless nights with a baby. (Though the sleep deprivation probably plays a role in that.) I’m now at the age where it’s routine to have my cholesterol checked, and where friends are announcing divorces instead of weddings. My social media feeds are flooded with pictures of kids riding two-wheelers and tweens sporting unkempt hair, rather than baby bumps. Instead of hearing, “My mom has cancer,” it’s evolved to, “I have cancer.”
How did that happen?
I anticipated recognizing the signs of growing up; I thought I’d feel different, as if I had at least some answers. But I don’t feel any different.
The other day, as my friend and I enjoyed the beautiful spring weather while our kids played, I shared my skin cancer news.
“Are you OK?” she asked, concern etched on her face.
“I’m fine. My surgery is scheduled for May. It’ll be over soon. I’ll be alright,” I reassured both her and myself.
“I meant emotionally?”
Watching our kids laugh and smear chalk on their arms and faces, radiating pure joy, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of adulthood.
“I just feel like a damn grown-up,” I admitted. “And it sucks.”
I then called the kids over; it was time to reapply their sunscreen.
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In summary, navigating the realities of adulthood can be overwhelming, especially when facing health concerns that challenge our perception of youth. We may not always feel prepared for the responsibilities that come with growing up, but we must find comfort in moments of joy and support from friends.
Keyphrase: The Fortunate Individual in the Waiting Area
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