I found myself in the right spot, waiting for an initial consultation with a Mohs surgeon, a specialist who would perform a precise microscopically controlled surgery to remove the basal cell skin cancer my dermatologist had discovered on my forehead.
Skin cancer. Really? I’m too young for that. That’s something old folks get or those who overdo it at tanning salons.
But I knew better. My sister had faced malignant melanoma at just 28. Neither of us fit the stereotype of “old” or “tanning bed aficionado.” It turns out we just inherited some unfortunate skin genes. I also recognized my luck in this situation. Basal cell carcinoma is the “good” kind; it grows slowly and is relatively straightforward to treat. The success rate following Mohs surgery is impressive—between 97 and 99.9 percent. Melanoma, on the other hand, is the aggressive, fear-inducing type of skin cancer.
I might just be the luckiest person in this waiting room, not only because I was the youngest but also because others were dealing with more serious diagnoses.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist called, pulling me from my thoughts.
Is she talking to me?
“Ma’am,” she repeated, locking eyes with me as she handed back my insurance card. “It’ll just be a few more minutes.”
“Ma’am”? What the heck?! I thought, as I walked over to retrieve my card. She looked like she was at least five years older than me.
Catching my reflection in a nearby mirror, I wondered why an advanced dermatology office would have one in the waiting area.
I look like a Ma’am. A 35-year-old mother of three. That’s precisely who I am.
When did that happen?
I could have sworn I was in college just yesterday, yet here I am, feeling like I’ve been a mom forever. I can’t believe I’m old enough to have a child in elementary school, yet I can hardly recall the Baby Days. (Maybe the sleepless nights have something to do with that.) I’m at the age where I need to get my cholesterol checked regularly. Friends aren’t posting wedding announcements anymore; they’re sharing news of divorces. My social media feeds have shifted from baby bump photos to snapshots of kids riding bicycles and tweens with unruly hair. Instead of hearing “My Mom has cancer,” it’s now “I have cancer.”
What just happened?
I thought I would notice the transition into adulthood. I expected to feel different, like I had at least some of the answers. But honestly, I don’t feel any different.
Recently, while outside with a friend as our kids enjoyed one of the first warm spring days, I shared my skin cancer news.
“Are you OK, though?” she asked, concern in her eyes.
“I’m fine. My surgery is in May. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll be okay,” I assured her as much for myself as for her.
“I meant emotionally?”
We observed our children laughing and playing, decorating themselves with sidewalk chalk. So carefree. So joyful.
“I just feel like a freaking grown-up,” I confessed, “and it’s not great.”
Then I called the kids over; it was time to reapply their sunscreen.
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