Some bloke saw me nearly naked today, poor lamb.
Okay, he was a doctor, and this skin check is probably ten years later than it should have been initially done.
There's nothing like a skin cancer scare to get you doing the right thing, and after this year's little operation to remove a squamous cell carcinoma from my temple earlier this year, and half a lecture from the plastic surgeon, I made sure I arranged what will now be an annual event. Besides, I'm in my 50s now. This is just another annual test to go with the mammogram, the "poo" test (for bowel cancer, which the Federal Government sends you in the post every two years just after your birthday) and a two yearly pelvic ultrasound to rule out ovarian cancer. Along with the eye test, hearing tests... Fuck, I hate getting old.
Stripping off for a doctor once a year is just another thing which will need to be done.
Part of me shirks at this. I'm not moley. I've stayed out of the sun for most of my life - although as a kid I saw a bit more sun. Living in London for eight years in my twenties meant I rarely had a tan. And my own doctor loves cutting the cysts that blight my scalp at regular intervals. Thankfully, I tan easily when I do get outside, but I'm also pretty good with sunscreen. And I'm a writer - work is inside at a desk
But the rational side of me also knows there's all sorts of skin cancers popping up on Mum's side of the family, and as nobody looks at my skin in a detailed way, it's probably best to have a medical professional do this. Even if it is rather embarrassing.
It was over in ten minutes.
He pointed at my top lip.
"Pimple. Too old for them, but this sprouted up yesterday, god love it. "
He looked at the faint scar on my temple.
"The surgeon did a great job."
"He did. You only see it if you're really looking." I've very pleased about this.
Of the spot on my neck.
"Keratoma - know about that."
The scratches down my arm.
"My cat is a prick. An adorable prick, but a prick."
He asked if there were any spots under my bra or knickers that needed looking at.
"No. You don't need to see my tattoo." (The last person to see that tried to rub it off).
He checked between my fingers and toes. He went over my back, down both arms and legs.
"Nice birthmark."
"Nobody notices it. Some of my cousins have the same one. I think my niece has one in the same place too."
"Strange, but not uncommon."
He checked my scalp, behind my ear, the soles of my feet.
It was over in ten minutes.No issues to write home about. Nothing that needs seeing to (other than a skin tag on my side which my bra catches and it gives me the shits.
It felt a bit pointless - but I know I've done the right thing.
It's going to be my birthday present to myself for years to come.
Such fun!
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