As a responsible if reluctant adult, I went in for my annual dermatology check-up so that no Japanese Fighting Moles can steal a march on me. I don't tan for fun, but I rock the pseudo-Victorian pallor that is my birthright without always slopping on some SPF or pulling on a hat, and of course there's the tiny fact that I let some irresponsible types nuke my chest for a few weeks.
ANYWAY. A few weeks ago, I noticed an oddly textured patch on my left cheek, and when the dermatologist took a look at it she announced that it was either a very odd-looking oil gland or an early basal cell carcinoma. I glared at her: "And by basal cell carcinoma you actually mean an early-stage, surgically treatable tumor with clear margins that'll be no problem at all to resolve, RIGHT?" She blinked. "Right." "Okay then. Biopsy that sucker." "You're not...upset?" "What, over something that'll be easily got rid of? No." And, oddly, that wasn't a lie; give me something uncomplicated with an easy solution, and I'm a happy camper.
The most unpleasant part of the biopsy was the anesthetic, because for some reason our hindbrains react poorly to the sight of a needle anywhere near our faces, and because even with a skilled needlesmith (as the nurse was), lidocaine itself burns like fire. Four slightly abraded minutes later, I was out the door, wishing that beauty spots were still de mode, because on whom, exactly, are those peach-colored bandaids inconspicuous?
The office called the next week to say the magic b-word, and if the phone slipped out of my hands because I'm bathing in SPF 45 these days, who is to blame me?
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