The Inheritance Under My Skin
A routine immigration medical exam forced me to let go of something I had carried my entire life.
After passing the interview and submitting the paperwork for my immigration process to Canada, I had reached the point where the odds of success were high — but the fear just wouldn't leave. Now came the wait for the medical exam order. The only things that could stop the dream at this stage were a criminal past or a health condition the immigration system could reject.
The family mark
The order arrived six months after submitting the documents at the embassy for the visa. The government provides a list of approved independent physicians; I chose one in Bogotá who was québécois — born in the French-speaking province of Canada. The checkup was thorough and included a general exam, urinalysis, and chest X-rays.
I'd always had a large mole on the left side of my back, about 8mm, the same one several of my cousins and my grandfather shared. For us, it was a family mark. During the exam, the doctor noted that its irregular shape could pose a risk and suggested removing it right then and there.
My first reaction was simple:
“How much does it cost?”
When he told me there was no charge and that he could do it right there with a scalpel, I didn't hesitate. My mom saw it as removing part of the family inheritance.
I saw it differently: if for some reason they didn’t give me the visa, at least I would walk away with that health benefit.
To move forward, sometimes you have to let go of pieces of the past, even the ones carved into your skin.
The results that flew over the Caribbean
After the chest X-rays at a center packed with people and uncertainty, I returned to the office. There I learned that my fate was still traveling: the results weren't decided in Colombia — they were sent to the Bahamas. There, a regional Canadian physician would evaluate whether my health was acceptable for the immigration process.
Although Canada is a deeply humanitarian country, for those of us who applied through the independent stream, health was a strict entry requirement. In that moment, your dreams no longer matter. You become a medical file waiting for approval.
That day I left the office with a bandage on my back and a new understanding of survival.
When you grow up with very little, you learn to see opportunities where other people only see problems.
What started as a medical recommendation for my health ended up being a preventive gift the process gave me at no cost.
All I had left to do was go home and trust that, on the other side of the sea, someone would see in my results the same light I was already beginning to feel.
