Hide-and-go-Seek

(Or, Cos Playing as an Adult)

I was both the best and worst at hide-and-go-seek.
I always wanted to be found, just not too quickly.

I liked hiding. Or maybe I liked the relief of it.

The quiet.
The dark.
The pause before anyone came looking.

It was the only time I didn’t want to talk to anyone, including myself.

As I got older, I kept hiding in other ways.
I avoided problems until they found me anyway.

I cos-played as an adult for a long time.

I held jobs.
I bought houses.
I had a baby.
I got married.
I got divorced.
I paid bills.
I didn’t pay bills.

I did a lot of what adulthood asked of me and somehow kept waiting for the feeling of being found.
But the truth is, I never waited long enough. I’d get antsy, move, and abandon the whole adulting process before it ever felt real.

I wore sunscreen.
I didn’t wear sunscreen.
I didn’t go for skin checks.

I would ask my primary care doctors about new moles or tags during annual exams, and they always said no, nothing to worry about.

That wasn’t right. I should have seen a dermatologist from my late teens on.
But dermatologists always seemed like they were for other people — people with money, energy, and the stamina to deal with what might be found.

Even with money in the bank, a steady job, and a safe place to live, I never fully saw myself as anything but poor.
That kind of thinking is its own kind of hiding, where dis-ease loves to fester.

When I first noticed a lump in my right armpit, I made an appointment.
The doctor said it was probably a skin infection from shaving.
I pushed back. Again and again.
Eventually, a biopsy confirmed what I’d always feared: long-term disease.

Since August 2024, when I found that lump, I’ve done everything I can to self-advocate.
My team now is filled with people who see me, not just my scans.

The hospital stopped feeling like a punishment when I started seeing the people in it — the ones sitting scared in waiting rooms, the nurses with tired eyes, the doctors who don’t always know what to say.

I tell them about the Cancer Shark.
I hand out stickers.
I trade stories about fear and survival.
I try to be funny; people’s laughs tell me I’m doing more than trying.

It gives me a small rush every time I see a Melanoma Cancer Shark sticker on a badge, a white coat, or the radiation bulletin board outside the PET room on the fourth floor.
The first time I spotted one, I laughed out loud.
It was like catching sight of myself.
Proof I’m still here.

I was never good at the seeking part.
I hated the counting.
I worried about the rules.
Was I taking too long? Going too fast? Doing it right?
The work of finding always felt heavier than the game itself.

Now I understand the seeking is work.
Maybe the only work worth doing.

And still, some days, I want to hide.

Proof: The medicine box and bottles in the background, and the random tools, and the new dog toys that I knew would be destroyed in moments and just make more work?