Here Comes the Sun Damage

It's a good thing I'm not working right now. This period of unemployment sabbatical leaves me with loads of free time to do important things, such as:

1. Catch up on the "The Walking Dead" (everyone was right: it IS awesome!!)
2. Notice how filthy the baseboards are
3. Ignore the filthy baseboards
4. Think about working out
5. Think about writing a book
6. Think about learning a new language
7. Think about doing volunteer work
8. Train my cats how to use an expensive new self-cleaning litter box
9. Clean up after my cats refuse to use the new litter box
10. Study my skin for new Suspicious Moles

I know what you're thinking. Why did they have to kill Shane in "The Walking Dead"?!! Oh, you're not? So it's just me then. Fine. Whatever. You've just had more time to go through the Five Stages of Grief. Give me my space. (But did you SEE him with his shirt off? Just checking....)

Here's what you may be thinking instead: Ms. CrankyPants, what's UP with the moles? What are you, some kind of freckle- and mole-ridden freak? Because if so, ewww, and Shane (even Zombie Shane) would be totally turned off. In response to your extremely rudely worded question, YES, I am a freckle- and mole-ridden freak, although I prefer "babe" to "freak," thank you very much.

Hey, we haven't played Can You Guess What THIS Is Supposed to Be? in a while! Let's play!

Hmmm, this one's tough. A piece of moldy cheese? A chicken breast that has fallen on a filthy floor? 

NO! It's an extreme closeup of my forearm. Note the almost blindingly white skin, and the overall mottled appearance. That, friends, is the result of genes, heritage, and years spent cavorting in the sun in tropical countries, with no thoughts of sunscreen, skin cancer, or leathery, hideous-looking skin.

As the daughter of a foreign service officer, I spent a significant portion of my childhood in Brazil and Costa Rica. When my family and I lived in Brazil, I was pretty little and at the mercy of my parents, who may have insisted I wear sunscreen. By the time we moved to Costa Rica, I was a teenager and convinced that having a tan was cool. My pale, sickly skin was decidedly not cool. So I never wore sunscreen, and when I went to the beach with friends, I'd lie out like a beached white whale, hoping desperately to get tanned, pronto! Of course, that never happened. Instead, I'd get burned, pronto! And then I'd peel like a diseased grape. Not cool. Did that stop me? No, sir! I persisted in this foolish quest, hoping to overcome my genes and heritage, and magically transform into a bronzed babe. Silly, silly girl.

So now I'm paying the price. Highly Suspicious Moles lurk everywhere. I've had a couple on my back removed. Hey, remember this?

These hushpuppies are quite similar in appearance to a particularly revolting mole on my back I had removed recently. 

And, just last week, I had a dark and tiny new mole on my toe removed. I know new moles are a Bad Sign. Indeed, it was. The dermatologist called me while I was in a movie with my nephew. As a considerate movie-goer, I'd turned off my phone, but I saw that I had a message and who it was from. Horrors. I crouched furtively in the back row, trying desperately to hear the message over the movie blasting all around me. I couldn't hear the specifics, but I got the gist: mole biopsy not good. Call us back.

ShitShitShit! By the time I got out of the movie, the dermatologist's office was closed. So I had to wait until the next day to talk to someone. Turns out, I was lucky. The biopsy revealed abnormal cells that, unchecked, could have turned into a melanoma. So on one hand, YAY! I'm relieved. On the other hand, AAAGH! How many other such abnormal spots are there on my hideously mole-riddled skin? Yes, I have already made my annual skin check appointment. In the meantime, with all my free time, don't think for a second I won't be scrutinizing every last spot. And learning a new language, while cleaning the baseboards.

The Suspicious Mole

I recently had a Highly Suspicious Mole (HSM) on my back. I was 99% sure it was cancerous (and had spread to distant organs), but I successfully avoided having a doctor look at it until I accidentally scratched it and it started bleeding. Somehow, the Highly Suspicious Bleeding Mole became an item I thought needed professional attention.

Now, I had given the HSM plenty of unprofessional attention in the form of:

1. Craning my neck to peer at it in the mirror every time I got out of the shower to see if it had changed color or gotten bigger. Or, perhaps it had vanished overnight! (This never happens, by the way.)  
2. Asking my husband to examine it and provide his assessment. He said it looked weird and that I should see a doctor. I stopped asking him after that.
3. Studying pictures on the Internet. (Tip: unless you want to give yourself nightmares, I strongly recommend against Googling "suspicious mole." There are many terrifying pictures.)
4. Poking, picking, scratching, prying, and prodding at the HSM in an effort to determine changes to its texture. 

Readers, I know what you're thinking.

"Gee, I sure hope she took a picture of this Highly Suspicious Mole!"

These are hushpuppies. But one of them could have passed for my mole.

It grieves me to report that I did not take a photo. I did, however, find a picture I took of some hushpuppies, which I think you'll see resemble a disagreeable mole. They resemble mine, anyway.

So there I was, a revolting bloody mole on my back. I called the dermatologist's office. I was displeased when they said they could see me that very week. Aren't dermatologists supposed to be fully booked for months on end? Because it would have seemed odd if I'd asked for a much later date so I could, you know, prepare myself for crushing news, I accepted the appointment and glumly hung up the phone.

Yes, I realize that this approach makes zero rational sense. Intellectually, of COURSE I know that it's better to get things checked out right away, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, but the irrational part of me vastly prefers the "ignore it and it might go away" approach (please see Item 1 in the list above), even though it never, ever works.

Back to the bloody mole. The day of my appointment was upon me in no time and I found myself hunched in the waiting room, which felt entirely too hot. No one else seemed to be perspiring. And why was everyone so calm? I covertly checked out my fellow patients. Did anyone have anything that appeared contagious? I detected no open, weeping sores, and there weren't any patients engaged in frenzied scratching, so I went back to trying to focus on my book.

I'd read the same paragraph four times when a nurse called my name. I fumbled around, grabbing my book, purse, coat, scarf, phone, and water bottle and shuffled along behind her. We exchanged some pleasantries:

"Hi, Ms. CrankyPants, why are you here?"

"Oh, just to have this mole looked at."

I showed her the mole. It is at this point in almost every appointment that I lapse into full-on sweaty, panicky, jokey Ms. CrankyPants. My most recent appointment went a little something like this:

[as nurse was prodding at HSM]

Me: "SO! Bet you wish you had taken today off, huh? HAHAHA! This probably isn't too pleasant, is it? HAHAHAHA! See how it's bleeding? Yeah, I accidentally scratched it. Now it keeps bleeding! HAHAHAHA! That's a bad sign, isn't it? Does it look bad to you? Have you seen ones that look like this before? Hey, where are you going?!"

[as nurse was fleeing the room to get the doctor]

The doctor entered, brisk and businesslike. He was probably warned by the nurse that there was a manic 10-year-old girl in Exam Room 2 who seemed on the verge of some sort of fit.

Me: "SO! HAHAHA! I guess..."

Dr.: "Ms. CrankyPants. We're going to remove that mole and have it biopsied. You'll have the results in less than a week."

Me: "HAHA...Wh...?"

[as doctor was fleeing the room]

The nurse came back in with the scalpel and giant needle to numb the area around the HSM. She whisked it off. I bleated out a few more pathetic HAHAs, and finally she took pity on me, saying it looked to her like a skin tag. A skin tag? Gross-sounding, yes, but far better than the deadly alternatives I'd been imagining.

I wasn't going to rest easy until I heard the results, though, which I was told would come in one of two ways. If the biopsy was normal, I'd get an email. If it was cancer, I'd get a phone call. So I did what any irrational hypochondriac would do: I turned the ringer off my phone for a week.

And I got an email. The mole was benign. Did I learn a lesson? Next time, will I confront a suspicious mole, persistent cough, or sporadically bleeding scalp head on? I likely will not. That's just not how I'm wired. But I'm working on it, honest. Every non-death sentence at a doctor's office inches me closer to the place where I know I need to be: facing my medical fears without delay. At least, without too much delay.