Once upon a time, I had a physical at work that was only mildly violating and in many ways long overdue. My blood work was “beauteous” and my reminders of things that women should take care of underneath their shifts duly noted. But then the mole patrol and the questions and the clucking of tongues and the needing to have things looked at.
I was given an appointment for a free freckle check with a dermatologist they bring onsite. It was not all that I had hoped: I had not braced myself for the thoroughness and en dishabille requirements of the check, but submitted to them nonetheless as I am sepulchrally-pale and wont to burn. They discovered a localized build up of pigment just below my left shoulder blade. They examined it with whatever dermatologists call their jeweler’s loup and declared it excise worthy.
One week ago, I attended the dermatologist’s office for the necessary gouging and sewing. I experienced the unique joy of seeing the aforementioned suspicious lump sitting like a flesh divot on the instrument table.
Yesterday, I returned to the scene of the gouging for my results:
Nurse: It’s a good thing we removed that mole. It was a [insert latin term here] and those are judged as mild, moderate or severe. Yours was moderate to severe, but we got all of it out.
Me: So it was cancerous?
Nurse: No, it was a kind of mole that can become a (sotto voce) melanoma but not the kind caused by the sun.
Me: So it was pre-cancerous?
Nurse: No, it was just the kind of thing that could become so, but not the kind caused by the sun.
Me: So it was something that could maybe, possibly, in the long run have the potential to perhaps become cancerous?
Nurse: Yes, but not the kind caused by the sun.
Me: So it was nothing.
I am still waiting to find out how much “nothing” is going to cost me.
From Pajiba July 2011 ($400)