The Unforeseeable Upside of Vanity and How It Saved My Life
Ah, the sixties, the age, not the swinging decade. That dreaded biological marker that loomed before me like an ominous spectre. The mere mention of it sends a shiver down my spine, for it carries with it the weight of time and the burden of age. But, in the midst of this daunting reality, I must admit that there are certain unexpected advantages to growing older. The beauty of a sunset now holds a profound significance, a seniors discount at the movies brings a small glimmer of joy, and, if the passage of time has any value, I should possess a certain wisdom acquired through the trials and tribulations of life.
Yet, alongside these silver linings, there exists a shadow cast by the ageing process. My once vibrant metabolism has betrayed me, opting for reverse rather than forward, and I awaken to inexplicable aches and pains merely from sleeping weird. My existence can come to a screeching halt when my reading glasses, quite conveniently perched atop my head, mysteriously vanish into thin air. And… there is a hint of mortality that occasionally wafts in like smoke from a distant fire, triggered by a phone call in the middle of the night which can only mean bad news.
With this insidious presence that stealthily infiltrated this stage of my life, I also desperately longed to turn back the hands of time. At the very least, I seek to minimise the disconcerting resemblance I now bear to my Great Aunt Dorothy. Oh, how I yearn to lift this sagging visage, to eradicate the etched lines between my eyes like a Helvetica Bold 11, and to fade those once charming freckles that have now been rebranded as age spots.
In my exhausting attempt to achieve this lofty goal, I have endured excruciating laser treatments. Think elastic bands being rhythmically plunked against my face, a painful reminder (and punishment) of the lengths I will go to reclaim my youthful radiance. I subject myself to regular facials, not the luxurious kind that transport you to a state of blissful oblivion, but rather the type that elicits involuntary screams, with blessed conviction to the aesthetician, "Sweet mother of God woman, are you sure you are doing this right?”
And let us not forget my vast collection of lotions and potions, a treasure trove of elixirs with a collective value that must surely rival the GDP of a small nation. Yes, I am that woman, desperately clutching the slippery slope of fading youth and surrendering a disproportionate amount of time (and money) to vanquish the barnacles of life that stubbornly cling to my vessel.
So, why am I telling you this?
Within this relentless pursuit, fuelled by my unwavering vanity, an unforeseen upside emerged—it may have saved my life.
Amidst the sandblasting of my aesthetics, there resided one unyielding imperfection, a spot that defied all attempts at eradication. It appeared innocent enough, resembling a small cyst nestled on the side of my nose. It was neither glaring nor alarming, nor did it evoke my general knee-jerk response to Google the shit out of it. It simply refused to fade away.
In the week preceding my sixtieth birthday, with this stubborn blemish monopolising my attention, I sought the assistance of a dermatologist, hoping to bid farewell to this inconsequential nuisance once and for all. I imagined Dr Harris swiftly deploying his arsenal of medical wizardry, blasting the intruder into oblivion like a heroic character from a Star Wars epic.
As he adorned his magnifying eyeglasses and took a closer look, he delivered a peculiar blend of news.
"Christina, I have good news for you, and I have bad news." Without giving me the opportunity to choose my preferred order, he proceeded, "The bad news is that you have cancer. The good news is that it's not the really nasty kind.”
The shockwaves reverberating through my being rendered me speechless. "Cancer?" I managed to sputter in disbelief. "Yes," he boldly reaffirmed, "a basal cell carcinoma, to be precise—a BCC." He had now resorted to acronyms as though simplifying the gravity of the situation. In that instant, blood drained from my face, and I fought the urge to empty the contents of my stomach onto the doctor's impeccably polished black brogues. "But, but... I use sunscreen," I stammered as if this revelation could miraculously alter the diagnosis. After collecting my scattered thoughts, I naively posed the question, "Well, can't you just blast it away?" "No," he said solemnly, "you require surgery, and I would recommend acting swiftly to avert further complications."
Thus, I found myself grappling with a new reality, skin cancer—a basal cell carcinoma. And how did I discover it? Not through any suspicious appearance, ominous darkness, or intrusive growth but rather through my own personal vendetta against imperfection.
A few weeks later, the BCC was replaced with a skin graft harvested from behind my left ear, forever altering the shape and size of my nostril and, I suppose, the backside of my ear too. And you know what? I am grateful. Granted, I would prefer not to bear the raised, pea-sized scar on the side of my nose that casts its own shadow—a scar that now commands more attention than the original blemish. Do I notice it? Absolutely. Each day, I am reminded of its presence. But then, I contemplate how much worse it could have been. I reflect on the fact that not a single aesthetician, nor anyone else for that matter, detected this silent invader. Not even I, who scrutinised my reflection with fervent determination. And if not for my ceaseless (and unattainable) pursuit of everlasting youth, my body, my family… and my life would bear far greater scars to contend with.
And so, dear reader, I impart upon you this lesson. As the boy band of my generation eloquently proclaimed, “You can't always get what you want,” but I was extremely fortunate to get what I needed. For within my relentless battle for youthful perfection, I was granted the privilege of growing older.
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