Taking a break this month from the “How do I explain…” series to share an incredibly poignant experience I had at my dermatologist’s office this month. I was waiting in the secondary waiting room and was surprised and honestly a little annoyed that the appointment seemed to be running late, this doctor is unbelievably punctual, we never run late, and, of course, it was a day when I had a tight turnaround of sailing on the ferry to Vancouver from the island and then back home all in one day. The ferry had already been delayed and I was feeling the time crunch, but then I heard the sound of crying coming from the exam room and all I could do was sigh. I remembered that cry, that fear, that first laser appointment, ironically it was 20 years ago to the month that I had had my first full session; but nearly 28 years since those first two laser pulses and spending the rest of the appointment hidden under my doctor’s desk. I knew now that time didn’t matter, that little voice, and that young family needed this time to come to terms with what journey lay ahead. So, I patiently settled in to wait in a waiting room I rarely saw anymore.
So, I was quite shocked when a nurse opened my door and said it was my turn, the voices were just outside my door, but I caught the knowing smile on my nurse’s face, a woman I have known for my whole adult life, and came around the corner to see my dermatologist, who shot me a quick wink, talking with a man and a younger doctor, who were all standing by a five/six-year-old girl who is still crying softly. Her birthmark is on her right cheek and slightly rounder than mine was, but at that moment, I was back in her shoes, the fear and pain, and so despite my nerves about missing my ferry home or my treatment, I knelt and introduced myself, “Hi my name is Katie, you know I was about your age when the doctor started my treatments too.” She looked at me in awe and asked, “Really?” I saw the horror on her dad’s face so trying to answer both questions and quell fears at once I replied, “Yep, but it took me quite a few years before I decided to continue with treatments, and the lasers have come a long way in all those years.” That at least got a watery smile.
While I was kneeling, I did have to chuckle hearing the young doctor my dermatologist was briefing comment, “Oh, you’re Katherine Allen.” My records have been available for teaching in this hospital for a long time, and every once and a while I bump into someone who had studied my case, but it’s always funny when it is a doctor about my age who gets excited to meet me. My dermatologist cut her off so that I could focus on the young one in front of me. I told the young girl that my marks looked a lot like hers before I started my treatments and I made my decision to save my eyesight, but that I still wear many of my marks with pride and showed her my arm. I knew we were running out of time, so while she inspected the marks on my arm, I thought about what I would have wanted to hear at that age, or at 12 when I started my treatments, and so as I was about to stand up, I told her, “It is definitely scary to start, but if you choose to, you can do this.” Her little shaky okay, hit me in the chest, but I smiled at her as I stood up, and smiled while I nodded to her very overwhelmed dad, and walked with my dermatologist into the treatment room, leaving the young patient with her young doctor. Our moment lasted less than five minutes in total, but I know I would have given anything to have met someone who had gone through this, even for those brief moments, 20 years ago, so I hope this encounter sticks with her and her family.
My doctor looked at me and smiled, I shook my head smiling back, knowing he had set this up, I never sit in the secondary waiting room anymore, and he remarked as the door closed behind us, “You know, she didn’t hide under the desk.” I couldn’t help but burst out laughing, it has been a long 28 years since I met my dermatologist and dozens of treatments, but I am nearing the end of my laser journey and at 32 I can proudly say I still have my eyesight.
As I walked back to the car to race to the ferry to get back home the tears started to fall, not out of pity for that young one’s journey, nor for the sadness of mine; but from the comment my dermatologist made as I left, “You know all the years of research on you, means her journey here will likely take a fraction of the time,” and this is why we do what we do, this is why I work with teaching hospitals, allow students to study my case, why I donate blood, tissue, and results to researchers, so that the next generation can have a more informed path. It doesn’t mean it will be easy, but goodness knows I hope it might be easier for them to walk through the path I and my team has tried to lay.
