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The Luckiest Person in the Waiting Room
I found myself in the right spot, anxiously waiting for my first consultation with a Mohs surgeon. This specialist was set to perform a precise surgery to remove the basal cell skin cancer my dermatologist discovered on my forehead. Skin cancer? Seriously? I’m way too young for this. Isn’t this something that happens to older folks or those who fry themselves in tanning beds?
I knew that wasn’t entirely accurate. My sister dealt with malignant melanoma at just 28 years old. Not old and definitely not a tanning addict. I suppose we just inherited some unfortunate skin genes. Still, I recognized I was fortunate in this situation. Basal cell is considered the “less dangerous” type of skin cancer—slow-growing and relatively easy to treat. The success rate after Mohs surgery is impressively high, around 97 to 99.9 percent. Melanoma, on the other hand, is the scary, aggressive kind that haunts people.
I reminded myself that I might be the luckiest person in this waiting room, not just because I was the youngest. There were others here facing much tougher diagnoses than mine.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the receptionist interrupted my thoughts.
Is she talking to me?
“Here’s your card back. It’ll just be a few more minutes,” she said, looking directly at me as she handed it over.
“Ma’am?” I thought, somewhat taken aback. I mean, 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 did they even put a mirror in a dermatology office? I looked like a “ma’am,” like a 35-year-old mom of three—because that’s exactly what I am.
When did that happen? It feels like just yesterday I was in college, yet somehow I’ve been a mom for what seems like forever. I can’t believe I have a kid in elementary school, and I find myself forgetting the days when they were babies (though sleep deprivation might be a factor). I’m at the age where I’m supposed to regularly check my cholesterol. Friends are no longer sharing wedding photos but instead announcing divorces. My social media is filled with pictures of kids riding bikes, not baby bumps. Instead of hearing “My mom has cancer,” it’s now “I have cancer.”
How did this all happen? I thought I’d have a clear sense of when I was growing up, like I’d feel a shift inside me, but I don’t feel any different.
The other day, while outside enjoying one of the first warm spring days with my friend and our kids, I shared my news about the skin cancer.
“Are you OK, though?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“I’m fine. My surgery is in May. It’ll be over soon. I’ll be alright,” I reassured her (and myself).
“I mean, emotionally?”
We watched our kids laughing and having fun, decorating themselves with chalk, so carefree.
“I just feel like a dang grown-up,” I admitted, “and it sucks.”
Then I called the kids over—it was time to reapply their sunscreen.
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