It turns out my dermatologist isn't missing his sense of humour gene. Though to be frank, I think his timing is a little off.
At my first visit his approach was professional verging on dour. Despite my ongoing attempts at infantile flippancy he stoically refused to take the bait and crack even the slightest smile. Hey! I wanted to say, as I fixed him with a pointed stare and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest with an index finger...stop being so bloody miserable and at least have the decency to acknowledge my pitiful attempts at wit. I can't claim to be even a distant relative to Noel Coward, but you can't deny my attempts at trying.
By the time my follow up visit rolled around I was a little more preoccupied and a whole lot less cocky. If I had been wearing boots I would have been quaking in them. As it was, I simply sat nervously shivering in my vivid blue paper gown, wholly convinced that my detailed check up was going to reveal a body peppered with melanoma. From the moment I had been diagnosed with melanoma - and particularly since the removal of a significant chunk of skin from my back - I had found umpteen suspicious looking legions which surely signified the beginning of the end. There were multiple moles simply begging to be labelled with the dreaded cancer diagnosis. Okay, so I was totally paranoid and, armed with a little bit of information, had within a matter of weeks morphed into the Internet expert on terminal skin diseases. I knew it was only a matter of time before Dr Dour proved my suspicions to be correct - and that time was now.
So I was a little taken aback when Dr Dour breezed jauntily into the room, took one look at my dejected and forlorn little self sitting hunched in readiness for the worst prognosis, and quipped, "My! Don't you look glamorous all decked out in blue today! Going anywhere special?"
Eh?
Er. Not sure exactly Dr. You tell me. The morgue, potentially?
Taking advantage of the fact that his Dr Dour/Mr Mirth transformation had rendered me temporarily speechless he continued with his flirtatious banter.
"Yep, a strappy pair of heels and you'd have all heads turning today in that outfit. Love the tan, by the way. Out of a bottle I hope...phnar, phnar. So. How have you been? Everything healing nicely? Let's have a little looksy, shall we? Check out Dr Slash'n'Sew's* handiwork."
At this point I went from flummoxed to severely irked faster than a Mclaren F1. Hey! I wanted to say this time...take this seriously you buffoon. I'm dying here. DYING I tell you. And the last thing I need is your pathetic attempt at cheeriness to soften the blow.
Of course, I did no such thing because, despite not being a rocket scientist, I'm still intelligent enough to recognise Karma staring me full on in the face when I see it. Go on Doc. Knock yourself out with your little jokes. Turn the tables on the British smart alec when you get the chance, why don't you? Just do me the favour of cracking on with the little comedy act so we can get straight to the bad news. There's really no amount of bonhomie today that's going to prompt any wisecracks from me when you lay the cards on the table. I'm all out of funny, if you haven't noticed, and have been for a while.
The scar looked fine, apparently. Healing nicely, possibly helped by the fact that the nurse had taken pains not to remove all the stitches a few days before. Dr Mirth grabbed a pair of tweezers and, with a few sharp tugs, deftly detached them from the pieces of skin they were seemingly intent on melding to. "Would you look at that...they almost match your eyes exactly", he commented, as he handed me a few strands of blue twine complete with blood stains and small pieces of skin still attached. "Not sure they would compliment every outfit though, so you're probably best off without them."
Oh for God's sake...let's just get on with it, shall we? Enough with the jolliness. Get your bloody magnifying glass out so we can get on with the process of checking all my other mutated 'beauty spots'. And then just tell me straight...is there a chance I am going to have any skin left?
Turns out there is. Despite some of the moles qualifying as 'vaguely suspicious', none of them warranted the quick 1-2 with a scapel for further inspection. I need to attend 6-monthly skin checks but at present Dr Mirth is convinced I am cancer free and - by taking proper precautions moving forward - can hopefully avoid any further instances of melanoma in the future.
I am so relieved I finally smile and go to great pains to resist the urge of planting a huge thank you smackeroo on his lips. In a final act of gratitude I decide to leave the thwarted attempts at humour to him on this occasion. The unexpected 'all-clear' may warrant a smile - but my ability to laugh about my first brush with the dreaded C word is still a little way off.
* not the most flattering pseudonym for my incredibly kind and experienced surgeon
Showing posts with label melanoma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label melanoma. Show all posts
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Monday, May 31, 2010
Jammy Cow
The day of the 'procedure' arrives. I have a shower and take care doing my make up and straightening my hair. After much deliberation I have decided that I would take up Ex's offer of accompanying me. Who knows...maybe this could be a turning point.
He's arranged to pick me up at 9.30am and is late, as usual. I pace around the house, tying and untying my cobalt blue cardigan, worn to bring out the blue in my eyes. I don't seem to appreciate that I will be having surgery soon. My outfit is carefully chosen. Where on earth do I think I am going? I am dressed for a lunch date, rather than a hatchet appointment at a hospital. I am a fool - but the distraction keeps my mind off the word 'cancer' and 'procedure'. I wonder if he will hold my hand.
He finally arrives and is, as usual, on the phone. At least it is work. I listen to his conversation all the way to the hospital, feeling nervous but for all the wrong reasons. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, with the assistance of my Victoria Secret hold-em-up-and-squeeze-em-together bra. A pretty pathetic attempt to create a cleavage...he knows damn well underneath all the padding it's pretty much two raisins on a ribcage. But this is the closest we have come to having 'a date' for over two years and I am giving it all I've got.
It doesn't seem to make any impression.
Waiting in the reception area we make small talk about mutual friends. I want to bring up the subject of us but now doesn't seem the right time. It never feels like the right time. I'm a little irritated on hearing about his dinner dates with our old neighbours and how well our previously close friends are doing with their newborn. "Oh, she's a natural. Very relaxed." he remarks about a friend's second wife. Is this remark innocent or a well disguised dig? No matter. It smarts. It doesn't occur to me at the time that one of the reasons I was so on edge during our early days as parents was his own intense anxiety. We were such a poor influence on each other. Maybe he will be able to relax and enjoy it a little more the second time around...
Finally I get called in to see the surgeon. I really haven't given much thought to the purpose of this visit and it is only when the Dr starts to discuss the procedure and the nature of melanoma that it strikes me. I have cancer. I listen to his description of melanoma being like a can of paint being thrown at the wall - the main blot of paint is easy to identify - it is the splatter effect which is the problem. Today they are going to remove skin possibly containing 'cancer splatter'. It will take an hour for the lab to provide initial results that they have removed a sufficient surface area and then I will be stitched back together. I start to sweat. I start to regret not wearing waterproof mascara. I start to regret wearing mascara at all. I start to feel a little scared. I think I might even feel a little faint.
Pretty soon I am lying down wearing the requisite paper gown, my back being stabbed with numbing juice, the skin soaked in sterilizing solution. The Dr starts to slice away and, whilst I can't feel any pain, I can almost feel pieces of myself being removed. Warm blood trickles down from the incision and I feel the nurses wiping it away. It seems to take forever. Although I am lying down I still feel lightheaded, as though I am going to faint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just don't pass out, you big nelly. Think of small children having life saving brain surgery. Blogging friends who have undergone mastectomies and chemo. This is Nothing in comparison. Stop being such a bloody wimp.
The next thing I know I get an electric shock, which sparks out of the end of my right index fingers. "What the...!" I exclaim. "Sorry," apologises the surgeon, "maybe you have created a short circuit touching the metal under the bed. Bring your hands up by your head." I bend my elbows and place my hands under my head, a little tense at this point, it has to be said. "JEEZ!" I laugh as his next attempt to cauterise the skin produces an electric shock which sparks out of my left elbow. "What's happening?". We remove my watch, while the surgeon reassures me again and again that, in over 10,000 procedures, he has never seen this happen before. "Yeh, well. I've been told I have a very magnetic personality." I tell him. Thankfully it doesn't happen again - although now that I know they are burning the end of my blood vessels to minimise the bleeding I go back to feeling a little lightheaded. The smell doesn't help. Bacon, anyone?
After what seems to be a lifetime, but in reality is probably only 45 minutes, the surgeon leaves the room and the nurse patches me up for my hour wait before I get stitched back together. "Go and grab some lunch" she suggests. I stand there in my gown and start to cry. I can't stop. This whole thing is so grotesque and so unexpected - and so reminiscent of days gone by, when I was in and out of hospital during my pregnancies. My un-waterproof mascara starts to trail down my face and a combination of tears and snot drip onto my lips. Lunch? I can't think of anything less appealing right now.
I stumble out into the waiting room, still crying, and Ex gives me a lacklustre, tentative hug. We go over the road to the ubiquitous Starbucks and I have a coffee. Ex continues to make small talk but I no longer have any enthusiasm for meaningless conversation. Is this really what we have come to? Trying to compare notes on friends we have in common? The hole in my back aches and is echoed in my chest. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to look at me with concern and love. It's not going to happen. It's nice that he volunteered to come with me, as a friend, but I no longer have the energy to put on a brave face in his presence. I'm exhausted and know that this is the moment that I really have to let go and accept this relationship on the basis that he is comfortable. It feels anything but comfortable to me.
Finally I return and get called back into the surgery. Good news. Initial results are good and they appear to have removed it all. I should feel relieved but all my senses appear to be numbed by the anaesthetic. I lie back down to be re-cauterised and stitched back together. This is the part I have been dreading the most. I don't feel any pain but there is still the oddest sensation. It takes nearly an hour for them to re-attach the skin with nearly 40 stitches - and the whole time my body shakes with sobs. I cry for Mack. I cry for Ex. I cry with the memories that are nearly 8 years old, but that seem as fresh as the wound that has just been inflicted. I wish it was as easy to sew my life back together. I feel as vulnerable and alone as I have ever felt.
Finally it is all done and I am able to leave. I still can't stop crying. Ex re-attempts the awkward hug but I fold into myself. He is no longer my soft place to fall. We part ways quickly at the exit as it is almost pick up time at school and he has the boys tonight. I get into a cab and sob into my cobalt blue cardigan all the way home. The last thing I want is to be returning to an empty house. I want to see my boys. I want to be somewhere I can feel looked after. I feel frightened as I grip my bag of meds and ointments and care instructions. Who is there to care for me? What if something happens? I don't want to be alone.
My paranoia continues through the evening but, miraculously, I get a good night's sleep and I wake in sheets that are still clean and not sticky with pints of fresh blood. Well, that must be a good sign, I think. I get up and plan an active day, but within 2 hours I am back in bed, exhausted, and sleep for another 5 hours. It takes at least 4 days for me to feel back to normal and physically able to be in charge of the boys without suffering a panic attack every 37 seconds. Ex doesn't call to see how I am for the first 48 hours, despite seeing me like a pathetic wet rag after the surgery. This, to me, speaks volumes. Time to cauterise that particular wound once and for all and move on. Time to really start to heal.
A couple of days later I agree that Ex can take the boys to Disney on the previously aborted trip. Within a matter of hours a friend casually suggests that I accompany her on a freebie trip to a 5* resort in Barbados for 6 days. Her husband has a work commitment that he can't get out of. I hesitate for a couple of days, although for the life of me I can't think why. A free holiday? To Barbados? 5*? When has anyone ever made me such an offer? Finally I come to my senses and tell her I would love to go. It coincides with the boy's Disney trip, so is perfect timing. Within a matter of minutes my flight is booked.
How very jammy is that?
I am hereby to be known as The Queen of All Jammy Things. The Jammiest Cow in town.
MOOOOOO.
I am off to Barbados tomorrow, in fact. I have packed all manner of flouncy and skimpy things. Oh. And SPF 55 of course. As getting a tan is out of the question, I guess I will just have to sit under an umbrella sipping cocktails, pickling my liver.
It's a hard life.
And turns out, I am not so lonely after all.
He's arranged to pick me up at 9.30am and is late, as usual. I pace around the house, tying and untying my cobalt blue cardigan, worn to bring out the blue in my eyes. I don't seem to appreciate that I will be having surgery soon. My outfit is carefully chosen. Where on earth do I think I am going? I am dressed for a lunch date, rather than a hatchet appointment at a hospital. I am a fool - but the distraction keeps my mind off the word 'cancer' and 'procedure'. I wonder if he will hold my hand.
He finally arrives and is, as usual, on the phone. At least it is work. I listen to his conversation all the way to the hospital, feeling nervous but for all the wrong reasons. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, with the assistance of my Victoria Secret hold-em-up-and-squeeze-em-together bra. A pretty pathetic attempt to create a cleavage...he knows damn well underneath all the padding it's pretty much two raisins on a ribcage. But this is the closest we have come to having 'a date' for over two years and I am giving it all I've got.
It doesn't seem to make any impression.
Waiting in the reception area we make small talk about mutual friends. I want to bring up the subject of us but now doesn't seem the right time. It never feels like the right time. I'm a little irritated on hearing about his dinner dates with our old neighbours and how well our previously close friends are doing with their newborn. "Oh, she's a natural. Very relaxed." he remarks about a friend's second wife. Is this remark innocent or a well disguised dig? No matter. It smarts. It doesn't occur to me at the time that one of the reasons I was so on edge during our early days as parents was his own intense anxiety. We were such a poor influence on each other. Maybe he will be able to relax and enjoy it a little more the second time around...
Finally I get called in to see the surgeon. I really haven't given much thought to the purpose of this visit and it is only when the Dr starts to discuss the procedure and the nature of melanoma that it strikes me. I have cancer. I listen to his description of melanoma being like a can of paint being thrown at the wall - the main blot of paint is easy to identify - it is the splatter effect which is the problem. Today they are going to remove skin possibly containing 'cancer splatter'. It will take an hour for the lab to provide initial results that they have removed a sufficient surface area and then I will be stitched back together. I start to sweat. I start to regret not wearing waterproof mascara. I start to regret wearing mascara at all. I start to feel a little scared. I think I might even feel a little faint.
Pretty soon I am lying down wearing the requisite paper gown, my back being stabbed with numbing juice, the skin soaked in sterilizing solution. The Dr starts to slice away and, whilst I can't feel any pain, I can almost feel pieces of myself being removed. Warm blood trickles down from the incision and I feel the nurses wiping it away. It seems to take forever. Although I am lying down I still feel lightheaded, as though I am going to faint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just don't pass out, you big nelly. Think of small children having life saving brain surgery. Blogging friends who have undergone mastectomies and chemo. This is Nothing in comparison. Stop being such a bloody wimp.
The next thing I know I get an electric shock, which sparks out of the end of my right index fingers. "What the...!" I exclaim. "Sorry," apologises the surgeon, "maybe you have created a short circuit touching the metal under the bed. Bring your hands up by your head." I bend my elbows and place my hands under my head, a little tense at this point, it has to be said. "JEEZ!" I laugh as his next attempt to cauterise the skin produces an electric shock which sparks out of my left elbow. "What's happening?". We remove my watch, while the surgeon reassures me again and again that, in over 10,000 procedures, he has never seen this happen before. "Yeh, well. I've been told I have a very magnetic personality." I tell him. Thankfully it doesn't happen again - although now that I know they are burning the end of my blood vessels to minimise the bleeding I go back to feeling a little lightheaded. The smell doesn't help. Bacon, anyone?
After what seems to be a lifetime, but in reality is probably only 45 minutes, the surgeon leaves the room and the nurse patches me up for my hour wait before I get stitched back together. "Go and grab some lunch" she suggests. I stand there in my gown and start to cry. I can't stop. This whole thing is so grotesque and so unexpected - and so reminiscent of days gone by, when I was in and out of hospital during my pregnancies. My un-waterproof mascara starts to trail down my face and a combination of tears and snot drip onto my lips. Lunch? I can't think of anything less appealing right now.
I stumble out into the waiting room, still crying, and Ex gives me a lacklustre, tentative hug. We go over the road to the ubiquitous Starbucks and I have a coffee. Ex continues to make small talk but I no longer have any enthusiasm for meaningless conversation. Is this really what we have come to? Trying to compare notes on friends we have in common? The hole in my back aches and is echoed in my chest. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to look at me with concern and love. It's not going to happen. It's nice that he volunteered to come with me, as a friend, but I no longer have the energy to put on a brave face in his presence. I'm exhausted and know that this is the moment that I really have to let go and accept this relationship on the basis that he is comfortable. It feels anything but comfortable to me.
Finally I return and get called back into the surgery. Good news. Initial results are good and they appear to have removed it all. I should feel relieved but all my senses appear to be numbed by the anaesthetic. I lie back down to be re-cauterised and stitched back together. This is the part I have been dreading the most. I don't feel any pain but there is still the oddest sensation. It takes nearly an hour for them to re-attach the skin with nearly 40 stitches - and the whole time my body shakes with sobs. I cry for Mack. I cry for Ex. I cry with the memories that are nearly 8 years old, but that seem as fresh as the wound that has just been inflicted. I wish it was as easy to sew my life back together. I feel as vulnerable and alone as I have ever felt.
Finally it is all done and I am able to leave. I still can't stop crying. Ex re-attempts the awkward hug but I fold into myself. He is no longer my soft place to fall. We part ways quickly at the exit as it is almost pick up time at school and he has the boys tonight. I get into a cab and sob into my cobalt blue cardigan all the way home. The last thing I want is to be returning to an empty house. I want to see my boys. I want to be somewhere I can feel looked after. I feel frightened as I grip my bag of meds and ointments and care instructions. Who is there to care for me? What if something happens? I don't want to be alone.
My paranoia continues through the evening but, miraculously, I get a good night's sleep and I wake in sheets that are still clean and not sticky with pints of fresh blood. Well, that must be a good sign, I think. I get up and plan an active day, but within 2 hours I am back in bed, exhausted, and sleep for another 5 hours. It takes at least 4 days for me to feel back to normal and physically able to be in charge of the boys without suffering a panic attack every 37 seconds. Ex doesn't call to see how I am for the first 48 hours, despite seeing me like a pathetic wet rag after the surgery. This, to me, speaks volumes. Time to cauterise that particular wound once and for all and move on. Time to really start to heal.
A couple of days later I agree that Ex can take the boys to Disney on the previously aborted trip. Within a matter of hours a friend casually suggests that I accompany her on a freebie trip to a 5* resort in Barbados for 6 days. Her husband has a work commitment that he can't get out of. I hesitate for a couple of days, although for the life of me I can't think why. A free holiday? To Barbados? 5*? When has anyone ever made me such an offer? Finally I come to my senses and tell her I would love to go. It coincides with the boy's Disney trip, so is perfect timing. Within a matter of minutes my flight is booked.
How very jammy is that?
I am hereby to be known as The Queen of All Jammy Things. The Jammiest Cow in town.
MOOOOOO.
I am off to Barbados tomorrow, in fact. I have packed all manner of flouncy and skimpy things. Oh. And SPF 55 of course. As getting a tan is out of the question, I guess I will just have to sit under an umbrella sipping cocktails, pickling my liver.
It's a hard life.
And turns out, I am not so lonely after all.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Turns Out The Dermatologist Is Having The Last Laugh
Being a SAHM you would think my week evolves around trips to the gym, lunching with lady friends, doing a spot of shopping and having time to be on top of Everything.
Why this is NEVER the case is something that irks me greatly.
This week my calendar was empty of all commitments and chores. Yet still by Monday lunchtime I had managed to crack a tooth (task 1: book and attend dentist appointment), the brake lights on my car decided to remain permanently illuminated (task 2: get treated like a complete nelly at the local garage and be without the use of my car for a whole day) and my wireless router took a personal dislike to my computer (task 3: beg my computer literate friend to come and kick it into touch...although hopefully not too literally because then this would lead to task 4: buy new wireless router).
Last week was just as joyful, including a trip to a dermatologist to check out a dodgy mole on my back, that my primary doctor had spotted some weeks ago.
I'm not a great one for doctors or hospitals. And to be honest, I contemplated ignoring my doctor's advice because I'm not the biggest fan of spending $20 to park downtown, then wait around in a doctor's surgery all day only to find out that everything is, in fact, hunky dory. Not when, in my dream life, I could be mincing about in front of a mirror, dressed head to toe in Lycra waving a couple of 5lb dumbbells over my head or spending a couple of hours moaning about my life with someone - in person - while stuffing my face with $20 worth of Sushi. Let me tell you something for nothing: if I am going to be spending $20 that I really don't have, then Sushi is going to win hands down every time.
I couldn't even see this mole (and Lord knows, I tried all sorts of ridiculous contortionist type attempts to track the bloody thing down). Therefore, I wasn't entirely convinced it even existed. And my body is completely littered with moles (I personally prefer to call them Beauty Spots...and if beauty is ever judged by the number of moles then it is patently obvious that I am very beautiful indeed) so why was this one deserving of extra special attention? The one I couldn't even admire with the use of a 3-way mirror?
Ultimately, of course, I booked an appointment because it did represent a day out (of sorts). And it's one more rational justification for why I am never on top of Anything in my life.
Within half an hour of arriving at the surgery I am sitting on the obligatory sheet of noisy parchment paper in a fetching peacock blue paper gown, gazing at rows and rows of pamphlets on every skin disease known to man (and possibly some known to aliens, judging by the photos).
I spend a few minutes picking at my nails. I contemplate the state of my hairy, pale legs in quiet disgust. I start to look in detail at the plethora of Beauty Spots adorning my arms until I go cross-eyed. Ultimately, there is nothing else for it but to peruse the damn pamphlets, purely for reassurance purposes.
I start off with the skins diseases featuring the most obscure names. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to educate myself. After all, knowledge is power. Apparently. Each accompanying photograph is graphically hideous and yet strangely comforting. My skin, in comparison, is remarkable in its perfection. Eventually I pick up the leaflet I have been consciously ignoring: Melanoma. One interesting fact catches my eye; Melanoma is more prevalent in people who have over 50 moles on the body. 50? That's a big number. I'm pretty sure I don't have anywhere near 50 moles. I start to count the moles on my left arm and stop when I reach 62 at some point half way up. Oh. Well. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.
Just as I am replacing the leaflet in the rack, the doctor walks in. Male. Youngish. Fairly good looking. Oh hellllooo, I think to myself. This appointment might be enjoyable after all. I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly while we have an introductory chit-chat. I'm trying to remember if there is a suspect mole on my boob that he really ought to take a close look at, while I'm there. Purely for medical purposes, of course. I know for a fact there is one in my bikini region but, given the fact that the bush is in desperate need of a prune, I'm thinking I'll give that one a miss this time round.
He opens my gown and starts to look closely at my back.
"So, where did you grow up? Where's the accent from?" he enquires.
"Oh, England."
"Hmmm. And do you remember getting sunburned as a child?"
"Well...I grew up in England..." I deadpan.
"Yes, but do you remember getting sun burnt as a child? What about on vacation?" he continues, ignoring my facetiousness.
"Not typically a great deal of sun in Scotland..."
The doctor is obviously not a huge fan of irony. He continues to prod about on my back with one hand, while handing me a leaflet outlining the ABCDs of identifying melanoma with the other. It is the C he is concerned about. My mole is apparently pitch black, which is not a good colour. He asks me if I remember using sunscreen as a child.
"Well, only if baby oil counts as sunscreen. Or cocoa butter lotion. I'm not even sure sunscreen was invented when I was a child. Have you seen my date of birth? Did they even have sunscreen in the dark ages?"
I can tell my constant stab at flippancy is starting to piss him off a little, but I just can't help myself. For goodness sake - I grew up in England, in the 70s. Of course, I didn't use sunscreen as a child. Did anyone? And can that really be my responsibility now? I have used sunscreen pretty diligently since I was about 19 and went on my first holiday abroad, to Corfu. But certainly have no memory of my mother slavering lotion of any description on our exposed skin during the summer months. Apart from the heat wave of '77, there seemed little point at the time I suppose.
"Right. Well, I recommend that I remove this mole and biopsy it. I should get results back in the next week. Just to be sure there is nothing to worry about."
"You're going to remove it now? Like, right now? I don't even get the time to go home, lose a bit of sleep over the next few nights, and possibly even a few pounds, with the anxiety of it all? You're not going to give me the opportunity to come back and moan about having to pay another $20 to park for an hour? Are you sure?" I laugh as I attempt to banter with him. He still doesn't seem to be appreciating my light hearted wit. I obviously need to try just a little bit harder.
"There's a choice of two different procedures I can use to remove the mole..." which he goes on to explain. Both of which make my knees start to go a bit googly. Did I mention I'm not really good with hospitals? "Is there one which you would prefer me to use? The second one might leave slightly more scarring."
"Hmmm. Choices. Choices. Well, I guess as my Sports Illustrated calendar days are behind me I'm not sure the scarring is an issue. Do you have a preference? I mean, feel free to knock yourself out if there's one you need to practice more than the other...it's not as if I'm even going to be able to see your handiwork anyway."
I begin to sense I have stretched his patience to the limit. I'm really not trying to be rude, I just don't want it to be so serious. If I continue to treat it like it's nothing, then of course, it will be nothing.
The doctor tells me he is going to slice the mole off, which sounds perfectly disgusting, and leaves the room. I sit there in my doctor-appropriate knickers (full cheek coverage) and blue paper gown, feeling a little bit nauseous. Scalpels. Blood. Not really my cup of tea at 11am on a Tuesday morning. I begin to think that I might want my mum.
Eventually the nurse comes in and sticks a needle in my back. As I lie down a lock of hair falls over my face. Oh good. I can be distracted by counting my split ends. Within minutes the procedure is done and the offending black blob is floating whimsically in a jar of saline. Thank God that's over. The doctor reminds me that the results should be back in a week or so and turns to leave.
"Er...excuse me? Don't I get a sticker??" I call after him. My last pathetic attempt to get him to smile, at the very least. He closes the door behind him, without responding. The nurse grins at me. "Well, I'm hoping you have a Star Wars band aid for me, at the very least" I say, giving her a mock stern look.
I get on with the rest of my scintillating week, far too preoccupied with matters concerning Divorce and Transatlantic Move to spare any for biopsy results. In a moment of despair I do think, bitterly, 'well, I do hope it is fucking cancer - then he'll have to let me go bloody home'.
Which I guess is a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The doctor called with the biopsy results yesterday and confirmed that it is melanoma. Skin cancer. He thinks it is localised. He thinks it has been caught in the early stages. I'm booked for surgery next week to remove more skin from the original site and need to have my whole body closely examined for further suspicious Beauty Spots to biopsy. (Fact: If they need to remove every mole on my body, then there's not going to be a lot of me left.)
I'm sure it's all going to be fine. I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about. But it's still a little unnerving. And trust me to piss off the doctor that diagnoses me with cancer. Mind you, I'm still hoping the surgeon next week has a soft spot for smart alec's, coupled with an appreciation for irreverent cancer jokes. Would that really be too much to ask?
Why this is NEVER the case is something that irks me greatly.
This week my calendar was empty of all commitments and chores. Yet still by Monday lunchtime I had managed to crack a tooth (task 1: book and attend dentist appointment), the brake lights on my car decided to remain permanently illuminated (task 2: get treated like a complete nelly at the local garage and be without the use of my car for a whole day) and my wireless router took a personal dislike to my computer (task 3: beg my computer literate friend to come and kick it into touch...although hopefully not too literally because then this would lead to task 4: buy new wireless router).
Last week was just as joyful, including a trip to a dermatologist to check out a dodgy mole on my back, that my primary doctor had spotted some weeks ago.
I'm not a great one for doctors or hospitals. And to be honest, I contemplated ignoring my doctor's advice because I'm not the biggest fan of spending $20 to park downtown, then wait around in a doctor's surgery all day only to find out that everything is, in fact, hunky dory. Not when, in my dream life, I could be mincing about in front of a mirror, dressed head to toe in Lycra waving a couple of 5lb dumbbells over my head or spending a couple of hours moaning about my life with someone - in person - while stuffing my face with $20 worth of Sushi. Let me tell you something for nothing: if I am going to be spending $20 that I really don't have, then Sushi is going to win hands down every time.
I couldn't even see this mole (and Lord knows, I tried all sorts of ridiculous contortionist type attempts to track the bloody thing down). Therefore, I wasn't entirely convinced it even existed. And my body is completely littered with moles (I personally prefer to call them Beauty Spots...and if beauty is ever judged by the number of moles then it is patently obvious that I am very beautiful indeed) so why was this one deserving of extra special attention? The one I couldn't even admire with the use of a 3-way mirror?
Ultimately, of course, I booked an appointment because it did represent a day out (of sorts). And it's one more rational justification for why I am never on top of Anything in my life.
Within half an hour of arriving at the surgery I am sitting on the obligatory sheet of noisy parchment paper in a fetching peacock blue paper gown, gazing at rows and rows of pamphlets on every skin disease known to man (and possibly some known to aliens, judging by the photos).
I spend a few minutes picking at my nails. I contemplate the state of my hairy, pale legs in quiet disgust. I start to look in detail at the plethora of Beauty Spots adorning my arms until I go cross-eyed. Ultimately, there is nothing else for it but to peruse the damn pamphlets, purely for reassurance purposes.
I start off with the skins diseases featuring the most obscure names. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to educate myself. After all, knowledge is power. Apparently. Each accompanying photograph is graphically hideous and yet strangely comforting. My skin, in comparison, is remarkable in its perfection. Eventually I pick up the leaflet I have been consciously ignoring: Melanoma. One interesting fact catches my eye; Melanoma is more prevalent in people who have over 50 moles on the body. 50? That's a big number. I'm pretty sure I don't have anywhere near 50 moles. I start to count the moles on my left arm and stop when I reach 62 at some point half way up. Oh. Well. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.
Just as I am replacing the leaflet in the rack, the doctor walks in. Male. Youngish. Fairly good looking. Oh hellllooo, I think to myself. This appointment might be enjoyable after all. I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly while we have an introductory chit-chat. I'm trying to remember if there is a suspect mole on my boob that he really ought to take a close look at, while I'm there. Purely for medical purposes, of course. I know for a fact there is one in my bikini region but, given the fact that the bush is in desperate need of a prune, I'm thinking I'll give that one a miss this time round.
He opens my gown and starts to look closely at my back.
"So, where did you grow up? Where's the accent from?" he enquires.
"Oh, England."
"Hmmm. And do you remember getting sunburned as a child?"
"Well...I grew up in England..." I deadpan.
"Yes, but do you remember getting sun burnt as a child? What about on vacation?" he continues, ignoring my facetiousness.
"Not typically a great deal of sun in Scotland..."
The doctor is obviously not a huge fan of irony. He continues to prod about on my back with one hand, while handing me a leaflet outlining the ABCDs of identifying melanoma with the other. It is the C he is concerned about. My mole is apparently pitch black, which is not a good colour. He asks me if I remember using sunscreen as a child.
"Well, only if baby oil counts as sunscreen. Or cocoa butter lotion. I'm not even sure sunscreen was invented when I was a child. Have you seen my date of birth? Did they even have sunscreen in the dark ages?"
I can tell my constant stab at flippancy is starting to piss him off a little, but I just can't help myself. For goodness sake - I grew up in England, in the 70s. Of course, I didn't use sunscreen as a child. Did anyone? And can that really be my responsibility now? I have used sunscreen pretty diligently since I was about 19 and went on my first holiday abroad, to Corfu. But certainly have no memory of my mother slavering lotion of any description on our exposed skin during the summer months. Apart from the heat wave of '77, there seemed little point at the time I suppose.
"Right. Well, I recommend that I remove this mole and biopsy it. I should get results back in the next week. Just to be sure there is nothing to worry about."
"You're going to remove it now? Like, right now? I don't even get the time to go home, lose a bit of sleep over the next few nights, and possibly even a few pounds, with the anxiety of it all? You're not going to give me the opportunity to come back and moan about having to pay another $20 to park for an hour? Are you sure?" I laugh as I attempt to banter with him. He still doesn't seem to be appreciating my light hearted wit. I obviously need to try just a little bit harder.
"There's a choice of two different procedures I can use to remove the mole..." which he goes on to explain. Both of which make my knees start to go a bit googly. Did I mention I'm not really good with hospitals? "Is there one which you would prefer me to use? The second one might leave slightly more scarring."
"Hmmm. Choices. Choices. Well, I guess as my Sports Illustrated calendar days are behind me I'm not sure the scarring is an issue. Do you have a preference? I mean, feel free to knock yourself out if there's one you need to practice more than the other...it's not as if I'm even going to be able to see your handiwork anyway."
I begin to sense I have stretched his patience to the limit. I'm really not trying to be rude, I just don't want it to be so serious. If I continue to treat it like it's nothing, then of course, it will be nothing.
The doctor tells me he is going to slice the mole off, which sounds perfectly disgusting, and leaves the room. I sit there in my doctor-appropriate knickers (full cheek coverage) and blue paper gown, feeling a little bit nauseous. Scalpels. Blood. Not really my cup of tea at 11am on a Tuesday morning. I begin to think that I might want my mum.
Eventually the nurse comes in and sticks a needle in my back. As I lie down a lock of hair falls over my face. Oh good. I can be distracted by counting my split ends. Within minutes the procedure is done and the offending black blob is floating whimsically in a jar of saline. Thank God that's over. The doctor reminds me that the results should be back in a week or so and turns to leave.
"Er...excuse me? Don't I get a sticker??" I call after him. My last pathetic attempt to get him to smile, at the very least. He closes the door behind him, without responding. The nurse grins at me. "Well, I'm hoping you have a Star Wars band aid for me, at the very least" I say, giving her a mock stern look.
I get on with the rest of my scintillating week, far too preoccupied with matters concerning Divorce and Transatlantic Move to spare any for biopsy results. In a moment of despair I do think, bitterly, 'well, I do hope it is fucking cancer - then he'll have to let me go bloody home'.
Which I guess is a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The doctor called with the biopsy results yesterday and confirmed that it is melanoma. Skin cancer. He thinks it is localised. He thinks it has been caught in the early stages. I'm booked for surgery next week to remove more skin from the original site and need to have my whole body closely examined for further suspicious Beauty Spots to biopsy. (Fact: If they need to remove every mole on my body, then there's not going to be a lot of me left.)
I'm sure it's all going to be fine. I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about. But it's still a little unnerving. And trust me to piss off the doctor that diagnoses me with cancer. Mind you, I'm still hoping the surgeon next week has a soft spot for smart alec's, coupled with an appreciation for irreverent cancer jokes. Would that really be too much to ask?
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