Moley

I recently had a mole removed from my side. The doctor thought it was fine, but what does a Bangladeshi-English doctor know about skin cancer compared to an Australian whose parents have had more skin cancers burnt off than he has had bad curries? (ok, facetious outburst over). When I reiterated my concern over the uneven colour, the irregular shape, the fact that it has CHANGED COLOUR over the last year and other silly potential danger-indicating factors, he said he could remove it but there would be a scar. Fair enough, I don’t expect someone to cut a piece out of me without leaving a mark.

The poet, however, was not pleased. A scar?!! he exclaimed. No! We shall send you to the finest surgeon and pay many thousands of pounds for the finest scar-free removal. When he calmed down and saw sense, he accompanied me for the minor operation which just happened to be on the hottest London day for 10 years. Love my timing. Oh, and Dr K? Thank you for the trendy blue stitches but a clean, hair-free pillowcase on your ‘operating table’ pillow and a less grungy looking towel would be very cool. Especially if you’re telling me I can’t have a shower for 36 hours.

Cost cutting in the NHS is really quite amusing. As we had lunch after my appointment, I lifted my shirt to show the poet’s niece what I assumed was my relatively impressive bandage. How embarrassed was I later that night to see that the nurse had put a flimsy little plaster (bandaid) over the site!

5 weeks on, my doctor still hasn’t received the histology results, so I’m unable to either jump up and down in my rightness and say ‘Ha, told you it was cancer’ or quietly accept that I had a perfectly good chunk of flesh removed for no reason.