I'm Pale. And freckly. And I burn easily.
Basically, I'm who the Dermatology Association of Dermatology Guys use as their poster child for future skin cancer candidates.
Having had several suspicious moles removed for being, well...suspicious, I finally decided to go in, be humiliated, and have the "hey I'm naked- look at that!" full-body check. It's a scary appointment to make, as I'm worried about my scalp, having burnt the ol' noggin more times than I can remember. Plus, I've been inundated with magazines this month doing multi-page spreads on why you probably already have the cancer of the flesh, and why you have to RUN! NOW! to the dermatologist to check yo'self.
Well, let me tell you- prepare to WAIT! A LONG TIME!
August 16th, to be exact, if you want to go to Fairview University, which I guess I never realized was the "Dr. 90210" of the dermatology world.
Fucking August. I could burn three more times between now and then.
A whole summer to worry. Worry. Worry. Freak out, and...more worry.
The Mr. is going to love this.
A whole summer of:
"Look at this! Are you looking? Does this look funny to you? Does it look like cancer? Did you even BOTHER reading the dermatology textbooks I bought you? Hey- you're not looking at the right one! To the left- no! The OTHER left! What the hell kind of Doctor are you, anyways???? Hey! Watch it Dr. Funnyfingers- you're playing 'dermatologist, not 'gynecologist'."
(Please note, I am wearing a sports bra here, some objects in picture are much larger than they appear. I swear.)
(And, if there's no picture here, blame blogspot.com. Rest assured, I look REALLY hot in said picture. Really.)
But they threw me a bone. I get to be on a waiting list in case something else opens up! Lucky me!
I suspect the waiting list is actually a pad full of little cartoon drawings this woman makes of what she thinks we look like while we're bitching about the wait- that promptly gets thrown in the trash.
"See who's waiting now- Bitch! Ha HA ha HA!!!!!!", she cackles as she crumples it up.
I suspect Ms. Appointment setter takes pleasure in holding my fate in her hands. Had I been nicer, maybe I'd be in there next week.
Damn me and my sarcasm.
I asked the poor woman on the other end how often people actually die of cancer while they're waiting for the appointment.
She wasn't amused.
And, so exactly why am I surprised I'm waiting?