I went to a skin cancer clinic a few weeks ago. It was my first time, which is slightly remiss for a pale, freckly redhead who’s approaching her fifth decade on the planet.
Wow that makes me sound sexy.
I went because my mother had been badgering me incessantly. She’d seen a strange mole on my back that she thought I should get checked out. I kept forgetting to make an appointment and eventually started lying whenever she called. “Yes, I’m going next Wednesday”, “Oh, I got the date wrong, it’s the following Wednesday”, “Actually, there was a mix-up and they can’t fit me in until after school holidays” …
But I finally got around to it. The strange mole on my back was just an AGE WART. And one of many, apparently. I was thrilled to discover my back was covered in age warts. (Ah, more irresistible sexiness.) I don’t get to see my back very often – and Husband’s eyesight isn’t the best – so I’d been blithely oblivious.
Then the doctor announced I had a skin cancer on my collarbone. She said she could burn it off, but it would be UNSIGHTLY. So she suggested I get a plastic surgeon to remove it.
I couldn’t go to my regular plastic surgeon, the one who removed the granuloma on my forehead (a red blob that grew during my pregnancies – the sexiness just keeps on oozing) and gave me all the free botox, because I’m worried he’ll be pouty about injecting someone who became a housewife rather than spreading the word about his fabulous services throughout the media.
So I saw a local plastic surgeon yesterday. He examined the skin cancer and informed me that it would leave a large, unsightly, lumpy scar. Let me just repeat that: a plastic surgeon said it would leave a large, unsightly, lumpy scar. Thanks for nuthin’ Mr F.R.A.C.S.
He added that I would need to wear a piece of plaster over it for THREE WHOLE MONTHS. Then he took a deep breath and informed me I wouldn’t be able to play tennis for a few weeks (to reduce the scarring). I don’t play tennis, but I live in a suburb where that’s what bored, middle-aged women do. I expect they get a bit distraught when he delivers that news. I remained impassive, still processing the no-alternative-to-ugly-scar news. But I’m thinking pump classes will be equally off limits.
I wasn’t very cheery when I left his surgery and went next door to the post office to write a sympathy card for a bereaved friend. That perked me up … not.
So I’m returning to the plastic surgeon on August 23 and paying $600 for him to give me a large, unsightly, lumpy scar.