29th July 2009

The day has finally arrived: my appointment with the dermatologist. Since my last entry, I have been able to block most of negative thoughts…well almost. There were times when I’d look at my baby daughter and wonder about the what ifs. But by in large, I had quelled the fatal imagery that has haunted me since my doctor referred me to the dermatologist. That’s not to say the last day or so hasn’t brought all those thoughts flooding back, which they have.
I was very quiet that morning, and every time I looked at my wife, or daughter, a great weight pressed upon my chest. At one point, I was alone with my daughter. Having mastered it a week or two ago, she was supporting her frame against a few stacked pillows. I was on the opposite side of the pillows looking at her. We were engaged, for a moment at least, in silent conversation. It was then I whispered to her that I was scared. Hearing those words said aloud, and knowing she was too young to understand, made it seem all too real again. I told myself I was being too soft and paranoid. I decided to test fate. The television was on showing the morning breakfast show. I had fifteen minutes before I needed to leave for work, so I said to myself, if there’s any mention of cancer, or a cancer advert presents itself during the break, then I’d take it as an ominous sign. I then sat back in the chair and waited. Five minutes passed before the presenter introduced a section on the dangers of sunbeds (no mention of Zeta though). The government have proved using tanning beds increases the chances of getting skin cancer by 75%. Things were not looking good.
I left the house well in advance, and arrived at the hospital in good time. I made my way to the information board and looked for the dermatology section. A woman asked if I needed help. She was middle-aged, and dressed in hospital uniform. I told her I was looking for the dermatology department. The woman said she would take me. I’m sure it wasn’t her job to guide people around the hospital, and I’m also sure she had better things to do, but it was such a welcomed and kind act that I thought (and you can see the state my mind was in at the time) that she was an angel sent to make things easy for me. Once we arrived at the dermo department, I thanked the woman and before I could ask her name, she turned away disappeared down the corridor.
I handed in my appointment details at reception, and then took a seat in the waiting area. I had ten minutes to wait. I tried my best not to project ahead. I tried not to imagine the doctor scratching his head, teeth-sucking, and then furrowing his brow to indicate his concerns. But it was hard.
Surprisingly, I was seen at the time of my appointment, and was directed to a small cubicle for examination. In the five minutes it took before the dermatologist arrived, I had absorbed the surrounding and pondered on what all the medical looking equipment did. All were black and sinister looking, and I wondered which of the pieces were used to lance, and which were used to cut. I contemplated picking one up, but didn’t get the chance. The doctor who entered had dark skin, and spoke with a strange foreign lilt. I assumed he was Moroccan, or possibly Egyptian, I wasn’t too sure. He knew why I was there, and asked me to sit on a chair. He then picked up one of the sinister looking tools and went behind me. During the examination, he asked the same questions my GP had. I told him I didn’t know how long I had the mole, or if I’d noticed a change in its size. I shown him a print out of a picture I’d taken of the mole back 2006. Next to the mole was a ten pence piece for reference. He seemed happy I’d done this. He measured the mole and said it was 9X6mm. He then took a large magnifying glass, added a little oil to its lens, and pressed it against the mole. He then turned back to me. This was it. I’d imagined this moment over and over for the past few weeks. Every time I put my head to the pillow, I saw this faceless man turn me and say, "I’m sorry, but it’s melanoma". Now the man had a face, a strong masculine face with dark skin. He opened his mouth, and the words he said bore no similarity to those I imagined. Instead, he said, "It doesn’t look anything to worry about." I was sure I’d misheard. I asked him what that meant. "It’s a benign mole." I thought I was going to faint. He added that it was a little large, so he wanted to have the hospital take a picture of it and then make another appointment in 3 months to see if it had changed. I asked him again, if he thought it was serious, and he asked if I had been worried. I didn’t go into the finer details, but said I’d had a baby recently and something like this makes you evaluate your life. He told me not to worry and then we sat down in his office where he filled in details of my medical history onto official looking paper. He then asked if I wanted to have the mole removed. As it stands now, the mole in benign, however, things could change in the future. That’s what he said. I asked him about the procedure, and he said a plastic surgeon would numb the area and remove the mole leaving a small scar. It was a lot to take in, and I was still reeling from the good news. I told him I’d have the picture taken, and then in 3 months I’ll let him know. We shook hands, and I left. I phoned my wife and told her the news, and then told her about the offer of removing the mole. She said I should, which is why, when I got back to work, I rang the doctors and rearranged to have the surgery.