Updated: Dec. 26, 2015
Originally Published: April 11, 2015
I found myself in the right spot, sitting in a waiting area for an initial consultation with a specialist—a Mohs surgeon tasked with performing a precise microscopically controlled procedure to eliminate the basal cell skin cancer my dermatologist identified on my forehead.
Skin cancer. Really? I thought I was too young for such a diagnosis. Isn’t skin cancer something that only happens to older individuals or those who misuse tanning beds?
Of course, I knew this wasn’t entirely accurate. My cousin was diagnosed with malignant melanoma at just 29, proving that cancer knows no age limits. We must simply have inherited flawed skin genes. Yet, deep down, I recognized my good fortune. Basal cell carcinoma is the “better” type of skin cancer; it grows slowly and is relatively straightforward to treat. The success rate after Mohs surgery is impressively high, hovering around 97 to 99.9 percent. Unlike melanoma, which is aggressive and can spread rapidly, basal cell is more manageable.
As I sat there, I couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the waiting room—not just because I was the youngest. There were others here who had received far worse news than I had.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the receptionist broke into my thoughts.
Was she addressing me?
“Ma’am,” she repeated, handing me back my insurance card. “It’ll just be a few more minutes.”
“Ma’am”? I thought, feeling a bit indignant as I crossed the room to retrieve my card. Surely, she was at least five years my senior.
As I returned to my seat, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Who decided a mirror was necessary in a dermatology waiting room? I looked every bit like a “ma’am.” I appeared to be a 35-year-old mother of three. And that’s precisely what I was.
How did this happen?
It seems like just yesterday I was in college, yet simultaneously, I’ve felt like a mom for ages. I can’t believe I’m at the stage where my oldest child is in elementary school, and I often find myself forgetting the early days of parenthood (perhaps due to chronic sleep deprivation). I’m now at an age where I need routine cholesterol checks. Friends who once announced their engagements are now sharing news of divorces. My social media feeds are filled with photos of kids riding two-wheelers instead of baby bumps. It’s no longer “My Mom has cancer”; it’s now “I have cancer.”
How did I reach this point?
I always thought I would feel the transition to adulthood—some sort of epiphany that would signify I had grown up. But I don’t feel any different.
Recently, while my friend and I were outside enjoying one of the first warm spring days with our children, I confided in her about my skin cancer diagnosis.
“Are you OK, though?” she asked.
“I’m fine. My surgery is scheduled for May. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll be alright,” I reassured her, trying to convince myself as well.
“I mean, emotionally?”
We both watched our kids laughing and playing, carefree and joyful.
“I just feel like a complete grown-up,” I admitted. “And it’s overwhelming.”
Then I called the kids over; it was time for their sunscreen reapplication.
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In summary, life seems to rush past, and the responsibilities of adulthood can be daunting. Yet, amidst the challenges, there’s a sense of gratitude for being able to navigate these experiences, even when they feel overwhelming.